Norah shut off the monitor. The office fell into dimness, night pressing its cool palm to the glass. For a breath she stood motionless, letting the quiet wrap her like a coat, letting her spine lengthen and her shoulders drop. The printer light blinked in the corner like an eye.
She picked up her notebook, heavy now with that single, dangerous sheet, and slid it into her tote. She hesitated, then reached for the NorthBridge folder and pulled out one more report—a summary of all the real estate holdings. She copied it, tucked the copy into her tote beside the notebook, and returned the original to the stack.
At the doorway, she flicked off the lamp. The office behind her settled into shadow and glass. In the hallway, the lemon polish scent had faded, leaving only the faint, dry smell of paper and after hours carpet.
Tomorrow she’d come in early and pick up where she left off. She’d rerun the tests with alternate data sources. She’d ask Compliance for an updated vendor file and see who approved what, when. She’d think about whether to bring it to Richard Hale. She’d decide if she should bring it to him at all.
The elevator chimed at the end of the corridor. Norah started toward it, then paused and looked back at the glass box of her office. Her reflection hovered in the dark like a twin—straight hair, fitted blazer, the crisp silhouette of a woman who had made herself small and sharp to fit into rooms that weren’t built for her. She lifted a hand and flattened her palm against the cool metal of the tote’s zipper, feeling the ridge of folded paper under the canvas.
Numbers don’t lie.
CHAPTER 3
NORAH
Norah likedto tell herself her apartment was perfect because it was efficient. That was the story she gave anyone who asked.Georgetown’s close to work. It’s quiet. The space suits me.But the truth was, it was her fortress. Every item in its place, every surface carefully chosen, every detail a buffer between her and the chaos that seemed to follow her whenever she loosened her grip.
The following evening, the fortress glowed with warm lamplight. Linen curtains softened the city lights pressing in through the tall windows. A vintage rug, muted reds and blues, gave the hardwood a lived-in texture. Cleo flicked her tail with imperious disinterest.
Norah set her laptop on the coffee table, but instead of opening it, she stared at her phone and listened to the news drone on from the TV in the background. Senator Morris was on a soapbox again. The woman was certainly passionate. Rumor had it she would be announcing a bid for President.
As the news analysts debated the merits of Senator Morris’s ambitious plans, Norah scrolled past Melissa Harris’s name twice, thumb hovering but unwilling to commit. She couldn’thave called last night, with the lateness of the hour. But she’d been sure to leave early enough today. It was barely eight.
Melissa had been her roommate junior year at Northwestern. Econ major, razor-sharp with numbers, but friendlier than Norah had ever been—Melissa could make anyone feel at ease. They’d bonded over too many all-nighters and a shared love of cheap Thai takeout. After graduation, Melissa had gone to the SEC, and Norah had cheered her on from a distance, proud of her friend for trying to make a difference.
Now, Norah needed that connection. Needed someone she could trust with what she’d found in the NorthBridge accounts. Another day of analysis hadn’t settled the unease in her gut. But dialing the number felt like crossing a line she couldn’t uncross.
Cleo yawned and stretched, claws grazing the cushion like punctuation. “Fine,” Norah muttered. She hit call.
The line clicked, then rang twice. “Norah!” Melissa’s voice burst through, warm and surprised, followed by the video of a dark-skinned woman with a brightly colored headband holding back her natural hair. “Wow, it’s been ages.”
Norah smiled in spite of herself. “Too long. Hey, there stranger.”
“Oh, don’t even start withhey. I want details. How are you? What are you up to? And don’t say work, because I already know you’re glued to spreadsheets twelve hours a day.”
The corner of Norah’s mouth lifted. “Guilty as charged.”
Melissa laughed, the sound messy and real. “Well, that makes one of us. I was literally finger-painted on this morning.”
“Finger-painted?”
“Yes. Lily got into the tempera set, and before I knew it, she was decorating the kitchen walls. And me. Bright purple. My husband thought it was hilarious. I didn’t, until he reminded me that paint washes off. Eventually.”
Norah let the image sink in. Melissa, in her suburban kitchen, two kids underfoot, a husband laughing at the chaos. It sounded exhausting. It sounded...full.
“How old are they now?” Norah asked, quieter than she meant.
“Lily’s five, Max is seven. Absolute maniacs, both of them.” Melissa’s voice softened, though, with something Norah couldn’t miss. Love, unashamed and uncomplicated.
For a moment Norah let herself remember the way she and Marshall used to talk about the future like it was already theirs. The porch swing he wanted, the dog she insisted would live inside, the names they’d tossed around half-seriously in the kind of late-night talks you thought would stretch forever.
She forced the memory back where it belonged. Buried. Untouchable.
“Anyway,” Melissa went on, “what about you? Last I heard, you were at Summit Capital. Still there?”
“I am.” Norah hesitated. Then, carefully, “And actually, that’s...why I called.”
Melissa’s expression shifted instantly, curiosity sharpening. “Uh-oh. That sounds serious.”
