The bathroom mirror doesn't answer. It just reflects back a woman who looks less like a widow and more like someone trying desperately to remember who she was before she became one.
CHAPTER 3: JAX
I arrive at the control center at 5:47 PM, thirteen minutes earlier than usual, and I'm aware of the time shift in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Awareness suggests intention. Intention suggests anticipation. And anticipation means I've crossed from professional monitoring into something I don't want to admit.
The descent into the subterranean level feels longer tonight. Steel stairs echo each footfall, concrete walls press closer than usual, and the machine's hum waits for me like an accomplice. I key in my access code—eight digits memorized so thoroughly my fingers move without conscious thought—and the door unseals with a pneumatic hiss.
Inside, everything is exactly as I left it. The day shift monitors from the main security office on the second floor—basic coverage, access control, routine patrols, same as the overnight shift.
This control center is mine alone, accessible only with my passcode, the privilege of being head of security.
My Herman Miller chair is positioned at the exact center of my monitor array, the coffee station is clean and ready, and the systems are humming their perpetual electronic hymn. This space exists for me and returns to darkness when I'm gone. Nothing has changed except me. I've spent the past week thinking about a woman who looked at my camera for three seconds, and now I'm here early because she's coming back.
I set my bag down. Start the coffee ritual. Grind beans, heat water to 200 degrees, four-minute steep. The routine should center me, return me to the controlled competence I've cultivated for two years. Instead, I'm counting minutes until 8PM the way I used to count exits when I worked with Elias, calculating trajectories, preparing for variables I can't predict.
At 6:15, I boot up the system. Run through diagnostics that completed automatically overnight but I check anyway. Cameras online. Audio feeds are functional but disabled per protocol. Biometric scanners armed. Panic buttons ready. Fire suppression standing by. Everything is perfect. Everything prepared.
Then I do the thing I've been doing all week, the thing I know crosses professional boundaries but can't seem to stop: I pull up last week's footage of Lana Pope.
I've watched it six times since she left. Maybe seven. I've stopped counting because counting makes it real, makes it a pattern instead of an anomaly.
Each viewing reveals new details I missed in real-time. The way she positioned her hands on the marble table—fingers interlaced, thumbs pressed together, a gesture that looks composed but reads as self-soothing. The micro-expression when the server asked if she needed anything else—fractional tightening around her eyes, preparation for interaction she'd rather avoid. The careful sips of wine, rationed like she's managing resources in a siege.
And that moment with Camera 12. Three seconds of direct eye contact that felt like being seen through a one-way mirror. I've replayed it frame by frame. Studied the angle of her gaze, the subtle shift in her posture, the way her pupils contracted slightly when she found the lens. She wasn't guessing. She knew.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien:She's confirmed for tonight. Exhibition opening at 8. Same observation protocols.
Same protocols. Which means watch her movements, catalog her interactions, report anything unusual. Standard surveillance assignment. Except there's nothing standard about the way my pulse picks up when I type back:Understood.
I close the archived footage and pull up tonight's configurations instead. The exhibition required significant camera adjustments—the white walls they erected for the gallery create different lighting conditions, new blind spots, and altered sightlines. I've spent the past three days recalibrating, making sure every angle of the main floor is covered without visible equipment. Lucien wants the art to feel intimate and the surveillance to feel invisible at the same time. Contradiction is the design principle.
Camera 12 will capture Lana's arrival and her likely position near the entrance. Camera 9 covers the gallery's center where most patrons congregate. Camera 14 monitors the back wall where the more provocative pieces are displayed. And Camera 7—the hallway leading to the restrooms—offers a narrow view but includes the stretch of wall where she paused last week, studying the architecture, maybe mapping escape routes.
I've programmed alerts for when she enters the building. Not because Lucien asked me to. Because I want to know the exact moment she arrives.
At 7:30, members start filtering in. The exhibition is invitation-only, sixty patrons maximum, a carefully curated list. I watch them arrive through Camera 4: men in designer suits, women in gallery-opening black, couples who've learned to perform culture like it's a competitive sport. The door staff checks biometrics and waves them through. Inside, servers circulate with champagne. Vera Molina—the artist, according toLucien's brief—holds court near her most controversial piece, a sculpture made of wedding rings welded into a cage.
The symbolism is about as subtle as a brick through a window. But it works. Patrons circle the piece, leaning close, murmuring appreciation or critique. Lucien moves through the crowd like a conductor, facilitating introductions, steering conversations. He's good at this—creating the illusion that everyone here is part of something exclusive, something that matters.
At 8 pm, my alert chimes.
She's here.
I switch to Camera 4. The town car pulls up exactly on time. Same driver, same precision. The rear door opens, and Lana emerges wearing the same black dress from last week. For a moment, I think she's going to enter the exactly the same; full of hesitation, testing, and carefully evaluating.
But she doesn't.
This time, she steps out of the car like she owns the pavement beneath her feet. Walks to the entrance with her shoulders back, her chin level, moving through space instead of apologizing for occupying it. The shift is subtle but complete. Last week she looked like a woman testing water. Tonight she looks like a woman who's decided to swim.
Marcus greets her. She places her thumb on the biometric pad and leans forward for the retinal scan. The system clears her immediately. Then she's inside, and I'm tracking her across my screens like she's the only person in the building.
Lucien intercepts her before she's taken three steps. They speak—I still don't have audio authorization for general floor coverage, so I'm reading lips and body language. He's welcoming her, explaining the exhibition, offering his arm. Sheaccepts. They walk into the gallery together, Lucien's hand at her lower back in that guiding-not-possessing position he uses with patrons he's cultivating.
I switch between cameras, keeping her in frame. Camera 9 shows them pausing in front of a photograph—Gift Wrapped, according to the exhibition guide Lucien sent me—depicting a woman's hands bound with silk ribbon tied so tightly her fingers are purple. Lana studies it for forty-three seconds. Says very few words. Lucien watches her watching the art, his expression calculating.
He's testing her. Showing her work specifically chosen to resonate with someone who's survived what he thinks she's survived. It's manipulation disguised as curation. I should be disgusted.
Instead, I'm fascinated by her reaction.
