His truck wasn't there.
He'd given her a key months ago—"For emergencies," he'd said, pressing it into her palm with a kiss. "Or whenever you need me."
She needed him now. More than she'd ever needed anyone.
The apartment was dark. Silent. Wrong.
Her key turned in the lock. The door swung open to reveal familiar shadows: the old leather couch where they'd spentcountless evenings tangled together, his worn work boots by the door, his favorite coffee mug still sitting on the kitchen counter.
The smell hit her first—sharp and acidic. Whiskey. Hannah's stomach turned.
"Jake?" Her voice sounded small in the emptiness.
No answer.
She moved through the rooms, touching things that suddenly felt like props on a stage. The blanket they'd curled under during movies. The shelf where he kept his tools, organized just so. The photo of them on the fridge—her laughing as he stole a bite of cookie dough, both of them covered in flour.
She could still feel his arms around her, still hear his laugh, still taste the sweetness of his kisses.
Glass crunched under her shoes as she stepped into the kitchen. Amber liquid stained the wall, fragments of a broken bottle scattered across the floor. The sight was jarring—violent in a way Jake had never been. Had never seemed capable of being.
Then she saw the black leather case lying open on the counter, edges worn and creased from use. Inside, the golden badge gleamed in the weak morning light, the embossed eagle and Federal Bureau of Investigation lettering catching on the sun's rays. Not a contractor's license. Not a work permit.
Not the kind of badge Jake should have.
An FBI badge.
She stared at the open case. The golden badge gleamed under the morning light, familiar yet utterly foreign. Her mind struggled to make sense of it, the pieces refusing to fit.
Special Agent Jacob Cooper.
The words swam before her eyes.
Special Agent.
Not a contractor.
Not her Jake.
Not real.
None of it had been real.
A sound escaped her throat—something between a laugh and a sob. Her fingers closed around the badge, the metal biting into her palm.
Every kiss.
Every touch.
Every whispered "I love you."
All lies.
She was a target.
A mark.
Someone to be investigated and destroyed.
