The morning light in Hampstead was different from the light in the safe house. It was softer, filtered through the large sash windows of the master bedroom, casting long, rectangular patterns across the wooden floor. There were no security shutters to block it, no reinforced glass to distort it. It was just sun. I lay in bed for a moment, watching the dust motes dance in the beams. It was a peaceful image, but my mind immediately cataloged the vulnerabilities. The window faced the street. The curtains were sheer. Anyone with a telephoto lens could see the silhouette of the bed.
I pushed back the duvet and sat up. The floor was cold. I slipped on my slippers. Beside me, Marcus was still asleep. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. He looked younger in sleep, the lines of stress around his
