I finish eating, wash my single plate and fork, dry them, and put them away. The routine is meditative. Gabriel used to mock my insistence on cleaning immediately—said it was compulsive, that I needed to relax more. What he meant was that my small acts of control threatened his larger acts of control. Every dish I washed when he wanted me sitting beside him was rebellion disguised as housekeeping.
At 7:30 PM, I receive a text from a number I don't recognize:Ms. Pope, this is Mira Keaton. Confirming our Thursday appointment at 9 AM. My office is at 1247 Crest Boulevard, 14th floor. Please bring any documentation related to Gabriel's estate—will, trust documents, financial records if you have them. Looking forward to meeting you.
I text back confirmation, then spend the next hour gathering what documents I have. The will itself, bank statements from the estate account, property deeds. Most of the financial records are still with Malcolm Fielding, which means I'll need to request copies before someone decides I shouldn't have access.
By 8 PM, I have an attorney meeting scheduled, a recording device being configured tomorrow, and a plan for Thursday that feels almost adequate.
Almost.
Because the gaps in my memory about Gabriel's death remain. And if Ezra has found evidence—witnesses, forensics, anything that contradicts the official ruling of accidental death—then all the preparation in the world won't save me from the truth.
I take my sleeping pill earlier than usual, desperate for unconsciousness. But sleep doesn't come easily. I lie in bed counting ceiling fan rotations, trying not to think about tomorrow's meeting with Jax, about the fact that he'll be in my apartment again, about the way his admission that I make him want to be present instead of absent made something in my chest respond with recognition I'm not ready to name.
At 11:47 PM, my phone buzzes. Text from Jax:Can't sleep either?
The message startles me. How does he know I'm awake?
Then I realize: the cameras inside my apartment. He can see through the living room feed that my lights are still on, or check the entrance camera to see if I've moved recently. He's monitoring me in real-time.
The rational response is fury. Demanding he explain why he's watching my apartment at midnight, what gives him the right to check whether I'm sleeping.
Instead, I text back: Counting rotations. You?
Working on tomorrow's prep. Reviewing Ezra's background, mapping Marconi's, testing the recording device.
You don't sleep much.
Sleep requires turning off the surveillance feeds. I'm not good at that.
The admission is vulnerable in ways I'm learning to recognize. He's telling me he can't stop watching, can't disconnect from the monitoring even when he's off duty. That the surveillance has become compulsive rather than professional.
That sounds exhausting,I type.
It is. But it's also the only thing that makes the emptiness bearable.
I sit up in bed, staring at my phone. We're having a conversation at midnight about emptiness and surveillance and the ways we both use control to manage hollowness. This is intimacy disguised as text messages. Confession packaged as casual exchange.
The emptiness doesn't go away when you're watching someone?I ask.
It becomes purposeful instead of meaningless. Directed instead of diffuse.
That's not the same as filled.
No. But it's better than empty.
I understand that logic. Have been living in it since Gabriel died. Filling my days with foundation work and therapy appointments and carefully structured routines because structure is the only thing standing between functioning and falling apart.
Tomorrow,I type.10 AM. We'll configure the device and you'll tell me how to act normal while wearing a wire.
It's not a performance. It's preparation.
Same thing, sometimes.
Maybe. But this time you're choosing to prepare instead of being forced to perform. That difference matters.
He's right. The difference does matter. Every choice I make that isn't dictated by fear or obligation is a reclamation of agency Gabriel spent five years dismantling.
Goodnight, Jax,I text.Try to sleep. The surveillance feeds will still be there tomorrow.
