Because if I looked at her, I’d see the face that had haunted my dreams for two nights straight. And I’d remember how she’d felt against me, how perfectly we’d fit together, how right it had been before her phone rang and shattered everything.
I pulled up the footage files, sorting by date and timestamp. The loops were subtle—Marcus and his team hadn’t been lying when they said the system was top-of-the-line. It was good. Just not good enough. Whoever had programmed these loops had known what they were doing, had taken care to make them blend seamlessly with legitimate footage, and I had an idea who was responsible.
But I was better.
My fingers moved across the keyboard like a pianist playing a familiar piece, muscle memory and skill combining into something that looked like magic but was just years of practice. Code was a language I spoke better than Russian, better than English. It made sense in ways people never did. It didn’t lie.
There. A fragment in the metadata that didn’t match. A timestamp that had been altered, then covered, then altered again. Amateur hour, really, once you knew what to look for.
I isolated the segment, watching the file size indicator climb as it loaded. Twenty-two seconds. Right in the pattern I’didentified before. This one was from three weeks ago, late at night, camera angle covering the west wing hallway.
The hallway that led to Barbara’s bedroom.
My hands stilled on the keyboard. Behind me, Barbara shifted again, and I heard her breath catch slightly. Could she see what I was looking at? Did she know what I was about to find?
I should play it. Should watch it right here, right now, with her standing behind me. Force her to see that I knew. That whatever game she was playing, whatever lies she was spinning—I was going to uncover every single one.
But some instinct stopped me. The same instinct that had kept me alive in situations where I shouldn’t have survived. The same instinct that told me this footage contained something she didn’t want anyone to see.
Something she especially didn’t want me to see.
Without playing it, I highlighted the segment and hit export. The file copied to my encrypted drive in seconds, safely hidden behind layers of protection that would take a government three months to crack. I’d watch it later. Alone. Where I could think clearly without her scent clouding my judgment.
“Find something?” Her voice made me flinch, though I covered it by reaching for my coffee.
“Just corrupted files.” The lie came easily. Too easily. “Your system’s worse than I thought. This is going to take longer than a week to fix properly.”
“How much longer?”
I forced myself to turn and look at her. Mistake. Huge mistake. Her eyes met mine, and just like always—I felt it. That spark. That electric current that ran from my chest straight down to my gut, pooling there like liquid heat.
The same heat I had no business feeling for a woman who was lying to my face. Who belonged to someone else. Who was so tangled up in whatever nightmare she’d created that she was willing to forge her own security footage.
I hated her for it. Hated that I couldn’t trust her. Hated that even knowing all of that, I still wanted her with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
“Two weeks,” I said, forcing my gaze back to the screen. “Maybe three, depending on what else I find.”
“Fine.” She moved toward the door, and I felt the loss of her presence like a physical ache. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I need you to tell me the truth. I need you to explain why you’re so afraid of a phone call. I need you to let me help you.
But I didn’t say any of that. Just nodded and turned back to the monitors, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway until I was alone with the humming equipment and my spiraling thoughts.
***
My penthouse felt like a tomb.
I’d driven back in silence, the encrypted drive burning a hole in my pocket like evidence at a crime scene. The sun had set while I worked, painting Chicago’s skyline in shades of purple and gold that I barely registered. All I could think about was that file. Those twenty-two seconds that Barbara had worked so hard to hide.
I poured three fingers of vodka—straight, no cranberry juice to dilute it—and sat down at my personal workstation. The monitors here were bigger, better, connected to systems that didn’t officially exist. This was where I did my real work. Where I hunted Douglas, piecing together the puzzle of betrayal that had nearly destroyed me.
And now, apparently, where I was going to watch footage of Barbara’s mysterious boyfriend.
The vodka burned going down, but it didn’t settle the rage simmering in my gut. Didn’t quiet the voice in my head that kept asking why I cared. Why it mattered if she was in trouble. Why I couldn’t just take Andrew’s money, install his system, and walk away from the mess that was Barbara Davis.
I plugged in the drive and opened the file.
The footage was grainy—late night, minimal lighting, shot from a ceiling camera with a slight distortion. But it was clear enough. Clear enough to see Barbara standing in the hallway outside her bedroom, wearing a robe similar to the one that had slipped off her shoulder two days ago.
