“And,” I add quietly, “he always liked my coding. Too much.”
Crewe’s jaw clenches.
“He wasn’t violent,” I say quickly, because something about Crewe’s stillness makes me want to defend even the parts of my past I’m not proud of. “He was just… intense. He didn’t love that I chose Ridgeway over him. He said the base would swallow my work and spit it out as a weapon.”
Crewe’s voice drops. “Did he threaten you?”
“No,” I say, then hesitate. “Not directly. But he got weird when I pulled away. He’d show up at my apartment. He’d send long emails. He’d talk like my code belonged to him too because he ‘understood’ it.”
I realize my hands are shaking when the folder crackles under my grip.
“I thought he’d eventually move on,” I whisper. “But then he disappeared. Ghosted. No social media. No contact. Just… gone. I was relieved.”
Crewe’s eyes stay on my face, not the papers. Like he’s trying to measure how deep the fear is under my words.
“And now,” I say, voice thin, “my lab is destroyed, my code is being used like a weapon, and someone is sending me messages like they know me. Like they’ve been in my life the whole time.”
Crewe doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for his phone.
“Crewe—”
“I’m calling Chen,” he says, already moving.
I scramble to my feet, clutching the photo. “It’s just a thought. I don’t know if it means anything.”
“It means something,” he says, tone firm. “We don’t ignore possibilities.”
He steps a few feet away, still within my line of sight. His shoulders square the moment the call connects, like his spine locks into duty.
“Major Chen,” he says. “Hawthorne. We may have a name.”
I hug my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how cold the cabin feels even with the fire going.
I hear his side of the conversation—short, clipped phrases.
“Riley’s ex. Evan Bell… yes… former drone operator… off-grid for months… possible obsession with her work… I want a full background pull and any contractor ties… and I want eyes on any old contacts or known associates… yes, ma’am.”
He hangs up and turns back to me.
His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark with something I can feel from across the room.
“What?” I ask, defensive without meaning to be. “I told you he was intense, not evil.”
Crewe takes one slow step closer. “I don’t like him.”
I blink. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
That shouldn’t make my chest warm.
It does.
And the worst part is—some stupid piece of me likes that he doesn’t like the idea of another man tied to me. Not because it’s logical. Not because it’s fair.
Because it makes me feel… chosen.
Protected.
