"No. You hire actual security. Professional protection that isn't emotionally complicated." She looks up from her phone. "If Jax wants to be your boyfriend—or whatever you two are figuring out—then he needs to stop being your security system. Those roles can't coexist without creating exactly the kind of power imbalance you're trying to avoid."
The assessment is uncomfortable but accurate. As long as Jax is the one monitoring threats, documenting Trask's movements, keeping me safe through surveillance, I'm dependent on him in ways that make equal partnership impossible.
"I'll talk to him tonight," I say. "About all of it. The surveillance, the security, what we want this to be."
"Good." Solange reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "And Lana? Whatever you decide, I've got your back. Always."
My phone vibrates again. Another text from Jax:Can we move our conversation up? I need to tell you something about Trask. It's not urgent but it's important.
Me:What is it?
Jax:Not over text. Can you come to my place after you're done with Solange? I'm home until noon.
I show Solange the messages. She raises an eyebrow.
"Well, I guess your conversation is happening sooner than tonight." She stands, starts clearing the table. "Go. Figure this out. And text me after so I know you're okay."
I'm back in my car when my phone vibrates again. Text from Jax:2847 Morrison Street, apartment 4D. Fourth floor walk-up, elevator is broken. Let me know when you're close.
I stare at the address, pulling it up on my maps. Morrison Street. That's in The Hollows—the part of Miramont where buildings lean into each other like they're sharing structural support, where Gabriel used to talk about the residents with a mixture of pity and contempt. I'd assumed Jax lived somewhere that matched his work at The Dominion, something sleek and modern with security systems and a view. Not here.
The drive takes twelve minutes. I park on the street because there's no visitor lot, feed the meter with quarters I find in my console, stand on the sidewalk looking up at a building that's seen better decades. Red brick darkened by exhaust and weather, fire escape zigzagging down the facade, windows that don't quite match each other like they've been piecemealed over the years.
This is where the man watching me lives. The disconnect is jarring.
I text him:I'm here.
His response comes immediately:Front door code is 4739. Come up.
The building's entry smells like cooking—something with cumin and garlic—mixed with old carpet and the particular mustiness of radiator heat. The elevator has an "OUT OF ORDER" sign that looks permanent. I take the stairs, counting floors, my footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell.
Fourth floor. The hallway is narrow; doors painted a green that might have been cheerful thirty years ago. 4D is at the end, and Jax opens it before I knock, like he's been tracking my progress through the building.
"You came," he says.
"You said it was important."
He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot. I've seen him in casual clothes before, but this feels different. Maybe it's the barefoot part, the wet hair, the fact that he's in his own space. Or maybe it's that he's let me into his apartment at all. This feels more vulnerable somehow, more real.
He steps back to let me in. The apartment is small—I can see the entire space from the doorway. The kitchen is barely big enough for one person, a living room with a couch and coffee table, and a hallway that probably leads to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything is clean to the point of surgical, surfaces empty except for necessities. No art on the walls, no plants, no personal items visible except for one thing that catches my attention immediately.
A bookshelf against the far wall, packed so densely that some volumes are stacked horizontally on top of the vertical rows. The only piece of furniture in this space that suggests someone actually lives here rather than camps temporarily.
I move toward it without asking permission, reading spines. Philosophy, surveillance theory, poetry in three languages, novels with broken spines that suggest multiple readings. A worn copy of Neruda with margins full of notes in handwriting I recognize from the reports he's written about Ezra's investigators.
"You live here," I say, which is obvious, but I need to say it anyway. "In The Hollows."
"Is that a problem?" His voice is neutral, but I can hear the edge underneath.
"No. I'm just—" I turn to face him. "Gabriel used to talk about this neighborhood like it was where people ended up when they failed at life. He'd drive blocks out of his way to avoid it."
"I'm aware of how people like Gabriel view this place." Jax moves to his kitchen and starts making coffee. "The Dominion pays well, but not well enough to justify luxury housing when I'm there six nights a week anyway. This works. It's functional."
There's defensiveness in his tone that I wasn't expecting, and I realize I've accidentally touched something tender. Not about money—about the gap between us, about the way my entire life exists in spaces Gabriel curated while Jax lives somewhere my dead husband would have considered beneath notice.
"I wasn't judging," I say. "I was just surprised. You seem like someone who'd want more security. Better locks, cameras, a building with actual working elevators."
"I have security. Just not the kind you're thinking of." He pours coffee into two mugs. "The broken elevator means anyone coming up has to take stairs, which I can hear from here. The building's mixed use—artists, students, people who work nights—so strange hours don't get noticed. And nobody in The Hollows calls the cops unless they absolutely have to, which means privacy."
