She relaxed in her chair. The end of a long day. And still they didn't have a clue. Even an inkling that there was a cuckoo in their midst. She liked that. It appealed to her sense of justice. For all the times she'd felt sidelined. Now she was the puppet master, pulling the strings. Stuart coming across them in the darkened car park was her one mistake. But even that had been taken care of, there was nothing to worry about, the driver had come up behind him swiftly even as he'd stopped dead in shock. She had watched his expression change as he made the connection, and then one swift blow to the head and he'd been taken far away.
Then when Stuart had been found, and Jo had raced to the rescue, as she had known Jo was bound to; she'd been worried. Under the guise of solicitious worry about his condition, she'd been to see him alone. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. He'd locked out his last sight of her from his head, and the drugs they'd forced into his system, keeping him doped for almost three days, had done the rest. His memory and the ability to make connections was broken and that was all she needed to know. It was a pity that he hadn't been killed according to the instructions given, but drugging him had scrambled his memory enough. She had been back to see him twice since, both times in the company of others, but still nothing. He couldn't even remember her name, so he was no longer a threat.
One of the major advantages she had was that she was trusted. Her superiors were even relying upon her analytical mind. She could move through them and talk about things, and absorb information like a sponge, which she would later share with her lover. And what a love affair it was. Everything else paled into insignificance next to it. Not her life, not her career, not her previous relationships. Nothing. Her consuming passion was him.
They matched each other perfectly. Unlike all her previous relationships, this was a partnership of equals, and he appreciated her mind as much as her body. She had given both willingly, and what she had got back in return ignited her passion in a way that no one else had managed before. He was as necessary to her as breathing, and when he had spoken of his plan, she had coolly helped him refine it. She had rejoiced in it. Pointing out ways in which he might betray himself, closing the loopholes, providing the trapdoors, alternatives, intelligence. The perfect crime. And she was in the perfect position to create such a plan. There was a delicious irony to her plan, like the perfect game of chess. In some ways it went towards the disconnection she had felt when she was passed over for promotion, a thousand other slights that had made her resent everything.
She reached over and switched out the light on her desk. It was time to go. He would be waiting for her, and they would go home together, she would unwind with a glass of wine, and they would talk while he made dinner. The perfect picture of domestic bliss. She smiled a little at the irony of that. They were to domestication what a jungle cat was to a tabby, but it was in the little things, the partnership, in which she took the greatest pride.