Christian “I got it,” Genevieve tells me the second she gets upstairs into my condo, her chest slightly heaving from the quick climb. She hands me the large, unmarked paper bag containing the Grim Reaper costume. “You paid cash for it?” I ask, keeping my voice low and disciplined. “Made absolutely sure you avoided any street-facing cameras near the shop?” “Yes,” she says, her expression completely flat and professional. “No paper trail. No digital footprint whatsoever.” I pull the heavy black fabric out of the bag and shake it out. It’s thick, coarse, and completely devoid of any defining shape. With Genevieve’s help, I pull the oafish robe over my head, letting the dark material drape heavily over my shoulders and fall down to my shins. “How do I look?” I ask, adjusting the fit. “I’ll tell you how you look,” she says, taking a step back to inspect her work. She folds her arms over her chest, a chilling, analytical glint in her eyes. “You look like something straight out
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