Andy Gates stood in the dim glow of the study inside the boutique hotel suite he'd made his temporary war room. Every surface was littered with folders, screen captures, printed emails, and photos that once meant nothing—but now, in the right context, were the perfect arsenal.
He ran his fingers along the edge of a photo: Sabrina McFee in college, a little younger, a little more worn down by life, but unmistakably her. She was sitting in the university bleachers, notebook in hand, eyes laser-focused on the field. Not the game—on Brace Donovan.
Andy scoffed. “I knew it,” he muttered. “You were obsessed.”
He flipped to another printout—this one, photos of the inside of Sabrina’s old dorm room. Courtesy of a former suitemate who Andy had paid handsomely to talk. On the wall had been a smal
