The private exit turned out to be far less glamorous than I expected.
There was no red carpet.
No line of black SUVs surrounded by men wearing sunglasses.
Just a quiet service corridor, a concrete stairwell, and a security employee who looked as if he had skipped lunch.
Two men waited at the bottom.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, probably in his forties, wearing a gray suit without a tie.
The other was younger and carried a tablet.
“Mr. Prescott,” the older man said.
“Daniel.”
His gaze moved toward me and Lily.
Not suspiciously.
Professionally.
“This is Elena Walker,” Adrian said. “And her daughter, Lily.”
Daniel gave me a small nod.
“Ma’am.”
The younger man stepped forward and handed Adrian a phone.
“We confirmed the number.”
“Anything else?”
“It’s registered to Ethan Walker. Dallas address.”
