The borrowed laptop chimes with an incoming call. Mason's face fills the screen, disheveled in that familiar academic way that used to be endearing before someone blew up my boat.
"Dr. McKay." He grins, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. "You're looking remarkably alive for someone whose boat exploded."
"Remarkably alive is my new baseline." The joke falls flat even to my own ears.
"Well, alive is better than the alternative." His expression sobers, the humor draining away. "I've been reconstructing your data from the university servers and my local copies. Most of your research is recoverable. But someone tried to access the university files remotely yesterday."
Cold settles in my stomach like swallowing ice water. "Access how?"
"Brute force attack on your university credentials. They didn't get in—IT security caught it—but the attempt was flagged." Mason's fingers fly across his keyboard, that nervous energy he gets when delivering bad news. "Whoever it was knew your login structure. Tried variations of your name, birthday, common passwords."
Someone who knows me. Or someone who knows how to research me thoroughly enough to guess the patterns.
"Can they trace where the attempt came from?"
"IT is working on it. But Fallon, this is serious. Someone wants your research badly enough to blow up your boat and hack your university accounts. What are you going to do?"
"Stay alive. And finish the analysis." The words come out harder than intended, but this research matters. Could prevent disasters. Could save lives. "Send me what you've recovered."
"Just don't die before peer review." His attempt at levity doesn't land. "Your SEAL bodyguard still hanging around?"
"Lieutenant Commander Lange is next door. Temporary security arrangement." The clinical description tastes wrong, like reducing Holden to a job title diminishes everything he's actually doing.
"Good. Keep him close. And Fallon? Seriously. Be careful."
The call disconnects. Silence fills the apartment again, broken only by the distant sound of water running through the pipes. Holden showering in the guest quarters next door, washing away the morning run.
Focus on work. Pull up the recovered files, cross-reference the coastal data, look for patterns in the erosion markers.
Don't think about Holden in the shower. Don't think about water sluicing over those broad shoulders, down the muscled planes of his chest and abs. Don't imagine steam rising around him, droplets trailing paths I have no business wanting to trace with my fingers. Don't wonder what he looks like with his guard down, eyes closed, head tilted back under the spray.
Work. Research. Stay busy before this line of thinking leads somewhere dangerous.
Time passes in that strange fluid way it does when you're deeply focused. The data analysis pulls me in, numbers and projections creating patterns that make sense in ways people never do. The coastline is degrading faster than predicted. Storm surge vulnerability increasing. Base infrastructure at risk if nothing changes, and someone wants this information badly enough to kill for it.
A sharp rap on the door jolts me out of the analysis hard enough that my coffee mug—refilled at some point I don't remember—nearly tips over. "Fallon? Need you outside for a minute."
Holden's voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. Tension wrapped in careful control, like a wire pulled too tight.
The door opens to find him fully dressed now in tactical pants and a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the weapon holstered at his hip. His expression is locked down, professional, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. Something that makes my pulse kick up before my brain processes why.
"What's wrong?"
"Your car. There's something you need to see."
Something. Not nothing. Not good news delivered in that tone.
Dread pools in my stomach as I follow him outside into sunshine that feels too bright, too normal for whatever is waiting in the parking lot.
My car sits in its usual spot. From a distance, nothing looks wrong. Just another vehicle among dozens in the apartment lot.
Then I see the windshield.
A fish lies across the glass. Atlantic croaker, full-grown, positioned with deliberate care that makes bile rise in my throat. Seaweed is draped around it like decoration, sand scattered across the hood. Someone caught this fish, killed it, arranged this grotesque display. Blood and ocean water smear the windshield in streaks that catch the morning light. And tucked under the fish, secured with the windshield wiper so it won't blow away, is a note.
White paper. Black letters. Words visible even from here.
Coastlines erode. Drown. Disappear. You will too.
