At 5:40 a.m., Gordon’s unmarked car pulled up outside, and two plainclothes officers followed him into the guest room. They photographed the suitcase where it sat and lifted the pouch with gloved hands. Inside was a sealed bag of white powder and a folded note with my name on it. Gordon looked at me gravely. “Eleanor, this is enough to charge you with trafficking,” he said. “Whoever did this planned it carefully.”
Downstairs, a kettle clicked. Vanessa’s voice floated up the stairwell, bright and calm, asking Nolan whether he had packed my coat. One of the officers turned toward the door, but I raised my hand. “Let her come up,” I whispered. Footsteps climbed the stairs. Then Vanessa appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea, and her smile vanished when she saw the pouch on the bed.
