"Three years. Before Crisis Negotiation." She writes the evidence number on the bag with precise notation. "Chicago field office. Mostly domestic operations but some international connections."
"What made you switch to negotiations?"
She caps the pen. Hands the bag back. "Decided I was better at talking people down than chasing them down."
There's more to that story. But she's already moving to check the perimeter, and I let it drop.
We check the other two access points. Same pattern. Cut fences. Fresh tire tracks. More fabric scraps. Evidence of regular traffic that's been carefully hidden from official security monitoring.
By the time we return to the office, it's almost noon. I spread the photos across the desk alongside the map Harlow drew. The trafficking routes from yesterday's camp. The access points here. The ghost employees in the system.
It all connects.
I arrange the evidence like puzzle pieces. Three access points. Four ghost employees. Multiple tire track patterns suggestingdifferent vehicles. The routes converge here, branch out from here. This facility isn't just part of the network. It's a hub.
Harlow leans over the desk beside me, studying the layout. She smells like coffee and cold air and something clean. Soap, maybe. Practical.
"Someone with inside access to this facility is part of the trafficking network," I say. "They're using your company's infrastructure to move people. Creating fake employee records for cover. Using service roads to bypass security. This isn't opportunistic. It's organized."
"And Viktor Petrov was one of the victims they were moving."
"Until they left him behind. Drugged and abandoned in your equipment shed."
She traces one of the routes on the map with her finger. "Why leave him? These operations don't make mistakes like that."
"Maybe they didn't have a choice. Maybe the transfer was interrupted. Maybe whoever was supposed to move him got spooked." I tap the equipment shed location. "Or maybe he was never supposed to leave. Maybe he saw too much."
Harlow's jaw tightens. "Which means they'll be back. Looking for him. Or looking for evidence we might have found."
"You need to be careful. I killed one of their operators yesterday and wounded another. They're armed, trained, and if they realize you're investigating, you become a target."
"I can handle myself."
"I know. But these aren't amateurs. This network is organized. Well-funded. They have inside access to this facility." I gesture to the ghost employee files. "Whoever's running this operation has resources."
She's quiet for a moment. Processing. When she speaks again, her voice is steady. "What do you need from me?"
"Access to your security system. Complete logs going back six months. I need to see every anomaly, every gap, every time someone accessed areas they shouldn't have."
"I can get you that."
"And I need you to consult on this investigation. Officially. Your FBI experience and facility knowledge make you the best resource I have for understanding how this operation works."
She meets my eyes. Holds my gaze for a long moment. Weighing the decision. Going back into investigative work. Taking on the risk. Stepping into the world she's been avoiding for a long time.
Her hand rests on the desk between us. Fingers drumming once. Twice. Then still.
"Yes," she says finally. "I'll help."
My chest loosens. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath waiting for her answer.
"Good." The word comes out rougher than intended. "I'll need you to?—"
Harlow shifts, reaching for another file, and her shoulder brushes mine. Brief contact. Accidental. But my skin warms where we touched.
She goes still for half a second before moving away. Creating space between us.
Professional distance. Smart. This is an investigation. A trafficking case that might be connected to my wife's murder. Not the time to notice how competent Harlow is. How she moves with purpose. How she handles evidence like it matters.
