“Pause,” I instruct.
Misha stills the screen. Jenny crosses the snow-dusted ground toward her car, the envelope tucked against her ribs. No hesitation or tension. No suspicion whatsoever. Her shoulders remain loose, her gait even. Nothing in her body language suggests she knows what she carries might be important. Shemoves like someone picking up dry cleaning, not someone involved in anything worth hiding.
“Play it again,” I tell him.
He rewinds a few sections and presses the button. I study every movement with fresh eyes. Jenny arrives with no envelope. She leaves with one. The exchange happens too quickly for anything complicated to pass between them. Sage hands it over. Jenny takes it. Done.
The muscles in my neck tighten as I lean closer to the screen. The timestamp in the corner reads three days ago, mid-morning. I was handling the dock situation. Sage was supposed to be resting.
“This girl wasn't staying with you?” Nikolay’s arms cross over his chest, his expression giving nothing away. “She just showed up for a few minutes?”
“Yes,” I respond, my shoulders tightening as a pulse of irritation moves through me. “Which means Sage contacted her.”
Misha clears his throat and taps a key. His fingers move across the keyboard smoothly. “There is more.”
The screen changes, switching to an indoor view of the small post office two miles from the cabin. The clerk's identity is irrelevant. What matters is the girl at the counter.
Jenny stands in line scrolling her phone, swaying a little with bored patience. Her weight shifts from one foot to the other while she waits. She reaches the counter and sets the padded envelope down. She smiles at the clerk, her expression open and friendly, completely at ease. She signs something, accepts a receipt, then pushes the package across with one finger. Shetucks the receipt into her purse and walks out the same way she came in.
Nothing about her movements suggests fear or urgency. Just a girl mailing something simple for Sage. But the sight churns low in my gut. A package left the cabin the same week my system flagged unauthorized downloads. Jenny wouldn’t know the first thing about pulling files from my computer, which means the envelope didn’t start with her. She is innocent in this.
“Timestamp?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes after the cabin footage,” Misha replies. His eyes remain fixed on the screen.
My stomach goes tight. A hollow pulse beats behind my ribs, echoing in the silence of the room. Sage doesn't do anything without reason, and the timing feels too intentional, too precise.
I push away from the desk and begin pacing. The floor beneath my feet is hardwood, polished to a shine that reflects the gray Seattle light filtering through the windows. Each step lands with a muted thud that reverberates through the otherwise quiet room. My hands curl into fists at my sides, then release. Curl. Release. The rhythm helps me think.
“Where is the package now?” I ask, heat rising in my chest.
Misha checks his file, scrolling through data on the tablet in his hand. “We tracked the outgoing scan. It went from Aspen Ridge to Denver, then transferred to a regional sorting facility headed for Washington.”
My head snaps toward him. “Washington?”
“It was sent to a private mailbox service,” he continues, his tone even. “We're pulling logs now.”
The words settle over me like ice water. Washington. Not some random destination across the country. Here, in my city. I close the laptop with such force that Misha blinks. The screen goes dark, reflecting my face back at me for a moment before I turn away.
“Keep working,” I instruct.
Then I walk out because the walls are creeping in too close for me to think. My shoulders feel like they're being crushed inward, the pressure building until I need space to breathe.
The stairs blur beneath my steps. My shoes hit each step hard, the sound echoing through the corridor. Every hallway feels too narrow. Every window feels like it lets in too much cold, the chill seeping through the glass and settling into the walls.
My mind runs through possibilities, each one darker than the last. Sage sent something to Washington without telling me. The secrecy alone tells me she's hiding more than just a package. When I reach Sage’s door, I twist the handle and step inside.
Vega lifts his head where he lies near the bed. His ears perk forward, his tail shifting across the floor in a slow sweep. He watches me approach, his dark eyes tracking my movements. He rises but doesn't leave. He plants himself beside the bed, his body angled toward Sage as if he's standing guard.
Sage looks up from the bed, her knees drawn toward her chest. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, loose strands falling around her face. Her tea sits untouched on the nightstand, steam long since dissipated. The moment she sees my expression, her shoulders lift with tension. Her body goes rigid, her spine straightening as if bracing for impact.
“Luka,” she breathes, her blue eyes wide as they search my face. “What happened?”
I close the door behind me. The click sounds louder than it should, echoing in the quiet room. I take a moment to gather the words that need to come out without sounding like accusations. But the truth is, Iamaccusing her. Not directly, though. Not yet. But the question sitting on my tongue refuses to stay quiet.
“What did you send, Sage?”
Her breath stutters. She straightens, her fingers curling in the blanket draped over her lap. The fabric bunches in her grip. “I… I don't understand.”
