Norah: Right now, she really likes this big, black mouse.
Marshall: Sounds like a good toy to have. Almost like a friend for her.
Norah released a sigh. Afriend?
Norah: So she doesn’t need a catsitter?
She was going to need him to spell this out in black and white.
Marshall: Oh, she does. But she shouldn’t be anxious.
Norah: Thanks. She’s pretty independent. Doesn’t like people getting too close.
She sent the message before she could overthink it. She held her breath as the dots appeared, then went away.
Marshall: Then she must really hate it when someone refuses to back off.
Norah: Maybe. But sometimes she still...checks to make sure someone’s there.
Marshall: Someone will be there for her every time she checks.
The message glowed on her screen, simple and steady.Someone will be there.
For a long moment she just stared at it, thumb hovering, afraid to move in case the words vanished.
It shouldn’t have mattered. He was doing his job. Watching out for her because she’d gotten herself tangled in something bigger than either of them. That was all.
And yet—her pulse eased for the first time all evening. The fear in her chest loosened its grip, replaced by something warmer.
She turned off the screen, the afterimage still burned behind her eyelids. A ridiculous little smile tugged at her mouth before she caught herself. Don’t do that, she told her heart. This doesn’t mean anything.
He wasn’thers. Not anymore.
But knowing his team was out there—somewhere past the rain, watching the street, keeping his promise—felt like breathing for the first time in hours.
She set her phone on the nightstand, double-checked the lock on the front door, then stood at the window and looked out into the wet dark. Nothing but streetlights and reflections. Still, she whispered it anyway, so quietly that even the drizzle of rain couldn’t carry it.
“Goodnight, Marshall.”
Morning came too soon.
The storm had passed, but the air over DC still felt heavy, like it hadn’t decided whether to clear or break again. Norah dressed on autopilot in her customary black slacks, silk blouse, and low heels—and told herself she’d slept. The mirror didn’t buy it.
By the time she reached her floor, the office was already humming. Norah’s heels clicked a quiet rhythm down the glass corridor, every step keeping time with her thoughts.
Someone will be there.
The words still replayed, steady as the hum of the lights overhead. She shoved them aside.
Today wasn’t about Marshall. It was about NorthBridge. About the numbers that still didn’t fit, and proving—to herself as much as anyone—that she could find the truth without needing him to watch her back. Proving that NorthBridge’s dirty tracks didn’t lead to Richard.
The meeting on her calendar had popped up a few days ago, and Richard had mentioned it in passing again. It was important that she be there, he had claimed. The boardroom door stood half open. Laughter drifted through.
Richard Hale sat at the head of the table, silver hair perfectly in place. And across from him, framed by the sweep of glass overlooking the Potomac, sat someone Norah hadn’t expected.
Senator Katrina Morris and her husband lined the table along with half a dozen minions. Associates, she corrected mentally. Recognition. Disbelief. And under it, the cold question that had been growing since Friday night:How deep does this go?
She straightened, smoothed her jacket, and stepped inside.
