The threat in his words hangs heavy in the air. I shift my weight, ready to move between them.
“Are you speaking from experience, Officer?” Eve’s voice carries just enough edge to make Jenkins’s jaw tighten.
The officers exchange a look that speaks volumes. Jenkins’s pen scratches against his notepad, the sound deliberate and grating. “We’ll need a detailed statement about your whereabouts last night.”
“I’ve already told you that’s not relevant to this investigation.” I keep my tone neutral, but both officers snap to attention at the steel underneath.
“Mr. Harding.” Jenkins’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you’d become Ms. Consoli’s legal counsel.”
“Just someone who knows the difference between investigation and intimidation.”
Eve’s shoulders shift—a minute adjustment most would miss. But I catch it, along with the slight tilt of her chin. Her gaze locks with mine for a fraction of a second, and the message is clear: Stand down.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. The urge to put Jenkins in his place burns through my guts, but I force myself still. Eve’s silent command holds more power than I care to admit.
“Strange coincidence,” Jenkins says, “your break-in happening right when certain people are getting nervous about your latest project.”
Eve’s arms tighten across her chest, knuckles white against her biceps. The tension radiates from her in waves, but her voice remains steady. “Is that an observation or an accusation, Officer?”
I shift my weight, calculating the exact force needed to remove Jenkins from her personal space. Eve’s eyes dart to mine again—a sharp warning. The familiar spark of defiance in her gaze stops me cold.
“Just connecting dots, Ms. Consoli.” Morris kicks another pile of papers. “Lots of people would prefer you stick to fluff pieces.”
My hands clench behind my back. Eve’s composure doesn’t crack, but I see the cost in the rigid line of her spine, the controlled rhythm of her breathing.
“If you’re done destroying evidence,” Liv says, “I’d like to file my report and leave.”
Jenkins steps closer, invading what little space remains between them. “Maybe you should consider a career change. Journalism can be… dangerous.”
Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring. But Eve’s presence anchors me in place. Her chin lifts higher, a subtle gesture of defiance that sends a familiar surge of pride—and frustration—through my chest.
“What makes you say that?” The ice in Eve’s tone could freeze hell twice over.
Jenkins’s face darkens. His hand twitches toward his belt. The movement triggers every protective instinct I possess, but Eve’s earlier warning rings in my head. She needs to handle this her way. The knowledge sits like acid in my gut.
While the officers continue their theater of intimidation, I circle the apartment’s perimeter. Each step reveals another carefully constructed detail of Eve’s existence. Or rather, her carefully constructed lack of existence.
The walls—beneath the spray-painted threats—are bare. No photos. No art. Nothing personal to anchor her here. Just blank spaces designed to leave no trace of memory behind.
In the corner, a screen, its screen a spider web of cracks. But the hard drive housing—that’s empty. Liv would never leave data behind. Smart girl. Now I need to know where she stashed it.
The kitchen tells an even starker story. One plate. One bowl. One set of utensils. The cabinets hold the bare minimum for survival, not living. No need for more when you’re always ready to run.
What should have been a dining area has been transformed into a command center. Three monitors lie face-down, their screens shattered. Power cables snake across the floor, connecting to a sophisticated setup that mirrors my own security system. The sight stirs something in my chest—an echo of recognition I’d rather not examine.
A stack of notebooks catches my attention. The pages are filled with her precise handwriting, but they’re written in a code I don’t recognize. Every aspect of her life is compartmentalized and protected. The woman leaves nothing to chance.
The bedroom door hangs off its hinges. Inside, the closet contains exactly enough clothes to fill one suitcase. The bed lacks a headboard or frame—just a mattress on the floor, easy to abandon.
The bathroom cabinet stands open, revealing a single toothbrush and basic toiletries. Nothing that can’t be replaced in minutes at any drugstore. The medicine cabinet holds no prescriptions and no personal items that could be traced.
My throat tightens as each detail builds a clearer picture. Liv hasn’t created a home here—she’s constructed an exit strategy. Every aspect of this space is designed for quick escape, for vanishing without a trace. The clinical efficiency of it all speaks to years of practice, of learning to live like a ghost.
The realization settles heavily in my gut. I recognize these patterns because they mirror my own paranoia and my own need for control. But where I build fortresses, Liv creates escape routes. Different approaches to the same fear.
The power play between Liv and Jenkins has gone on long enough. I step forward, my shoes crushing broken glass beneath my feet. The sound draws their attention like a gunshot.
“Officer Jenkins.” My voice cuts through the tension. “I believe we’re done here.”
