She disappeared into the side archive, her badge unlocking the door. He should leave now. Log her timing, note her habits, walk away.
Instead, he circled the gallery once, putting himself near a display case of fourteenth-century parchment. The manuscript under the glass was one he’d catalogued in his head years ago. His eidetic memory called up every detail: the loop of the “g,” the thickness of the ink where the scribe had pressed too hard. He could almost smell the animal hide beneath the centuries.
The door clicked again. Clara emerged, carrying a folio and a tablet. She crossed toward the case, intent on her work.
Jonas knew better than to step closer. But his pulse betrayed him, pushing his body toward hers until he stood only a breath away. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Her head lifted sharply. Surprise flickered, then she steadied, polite and self-contained. But up close, Jonas saw the truth: the faintest flush at her cheek, the wary calculation in her eyes.
He nodded toward the manuscript. “Most people assume parchment is old paper. But it isn’t. It’s animal skin. This one’s calf. You can tell by the surface, it’s smoother than sheep. More expensive. Reserved for the wealthy or the church.”
Her brows rose. “That’s… very accurate.”
Jonas let his gaze rest on her, not just the folio, not the manuscript, her. “Fourteenth century. English hand, though the Latin’s unmistakable. See the way the ‘g’ loops here? That style never left the region.”
Clara’s lips curved. Not a full smile, she didn’t give those away easily, but something small and real. “You know a surprising amount for a casual visitor.”
“I remember things,” he said simply.
She tilted her head, studying him as though he were another exhibit. “Memory like that can be both a gift and a burden.”
Jonas stilled. The words cut closer than she knew. He cleared his throat. “Most labels here aren’t worth reading. They’re oversimplified. Stripped of context.”
That brought her gaze fully to him, sharp but not unkind. “And context is everything.”
For a moment their eyes held, a current sparking between them. It rattled him. He’d stood in interrogation rooms, stared down men with guns, but this, this quiet intensity in a museum gallery, unsettled him more than any battlefield.
She blinked, breaking the moment. “I should get back. Enjoy your visit.”
He wanted to stop her, to ask something, anything, but the archive door had already closed behind her.
Jonas stood there, heart unsteady, furious at himself. He’d come here to watch, not to talk. He’d broken his own rules, exposed himself for nothing more than the need to hear her voice.
He forced himself toward the exit, each step deliberate. Clara Sutton wasn’t a woman he could want. She was leverage. A key to Oliver. Nothing more.
His phone vibrated. He slipped it from his pocket.
Bás.
Jonas hesitated, then answered.
“Where the hell are you, Watchdog?” Bás’s voice was a gravel scrape, tired but direct. “You’ve been gone too long. I need you back. We’ve got threads unravelling and I can’t cover them without you.”
Jonas’s chest tightened. Guilt landed hard, heavy as lead. He could picture Bás exactly: leaning against the operations table, jaw tight, carrying too much weight as always. “I’ll be back soon,” Jonas said, keeping his tone even. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Loose ends?” Bás’s suspicion was sharp enough to taste. “What kind of loose ends take you off the grid for this long?”
“Personal.” The word came out clipped, final.
The silence stretched, loaded. Then Bás exhaled, low and rough. “You know I trust you. But don’t make me regret it. Come home, Watchdog. The team needs you.”
Jonas swallowed against the knot in his throat. “I’ll try.”
He ended the call before the guilt could deepen.
For a long moment, he stood in the museum’s shadowed vestibule, the echo of Clara’s voice and Bás’s demand colliding in his head. One pulled him forward. The other pulled him back.
And Jonas knew, sooner or later, he’d have to choose.
