"I'm not here to interfere with your work, just to keep you safe," Devlin says. "You won't even know I'm there."
That seems unlikely, but I nod. Nelson heads back to his office, leaving me with Devlin and Duke.
"Your office?"
"This way."
We walk through the operations building, and I'm acutely aware of him behind me. Duke trots between us, occasionally looking up at me. Other personnel we pass do double-takes, and I know the gossip mill will be churning by lunchtime.
My office feels smaller with Devlin in it, his presence filling the space in a way that makes me hyperaware of every surface. The walls are covered with migration pattern maps and strike incident tracking charts. Reference materials stack on every available surface, organized in a system that makes sense to me even if it looks like chaos to anyone else.
"You can sit there," I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. "Or stand. Whatever you prefer."
He takes the chair, and Duke settles at his feet with the discipline of a dog who's done this routine countless times. Devlin's gaze sweeps the office, taking in the maps and charts,the photos of successful habitat modifications, the stack of reference materials on my desk.
"Tell me about your work," he says, and I blink at him in surprise.
"You want to know about bird strike prevention?"
"I want to understand what you do, how you do it, and why someone might want to sabotage it." His expression is serious, genuinely interested. "Context helps me protect you better."
Fair enough. I lean back in my chair and try to figure out where to start. "Birds and aircraft don't mix well. When a bird hits a plane, especially during takeoff or landing when speeds are high, it can cause catastrophic damage. Engines fail, windscreens shatter, control surfaces get compromised. People die."
He nods, waiting for me to continue.
"My father was killed in a bird strike incident when I was sixteen," I say, and the words come easier than I expected. Maybe because he's not offering sympathy or trying to fix anything, just listening. "The investigation found it was preventable. Proper wildlife management protocols weren't followed, and he paid the price. So I made it my mission to make sure no one else does."
"That's why you're here," Devlin says, not a question but an understanding.
"That's why I do this." I lean forward, getting into the work that drives me. "Bird strike prevention is about making airfields unappealing to birds. Habitat modification removes food sources and nesting areas. Exclusion devices create physical barriers. I use solar-powered speakers that emit raptor calls to scare smaller birds away, reflective tape that creates movement and light patterns they don't like. It's not about harming them. It's about encouraging them to choose safer locations."
"Which makes you invaluable," he says. "But also threatening to people who don't want change."
Exactly. I pull up my computer to show him the data tracking I've been doing, the patterns of bird activity and strike incidents over time. The screen loads, and I navigate to my research files to pull up the most recent reports.
Except the files aren't there.
My stomach drops as I click through folders that should be full of data, finding corrupted files and missing documents. Months of research, observation logs, statistical analysis—all of it either deleted or damaged beyond recovery.
"No," I breathe, clicking frantically through my directories. "No, no, no."
Devlin is on his feet immediately, moving around the desk to see what I'm looking at. "What's wrong?"
"My files. All my research data. Someone accessed my computer and destroyed it."
The violation hits fresh, sharper than the note on my truck or the items moved in my cottage. This is my work. This is the thing that matters most, the mission that's driven me for over a decade, and someone deliberately sabotaged it.
"When was the last time you accessed these files?" Devlin's voice is calm, focused, pulling me back from the edge of panic.
"Yesterday afternoon. I was working on my weekly report before I left for my shift at the diner."
"Can you recover the data?"
"Maybe. I have backups, but they're a week old. Everything I've done since then is just gone." The weight of it presses down, threatening to crack the professional composure I've been maintaining. "This isn't just harassment anymore. Whoever is doing this wants to destroy my work, wants to prove I don't belong here by making sure I have nothing left to contribute."
Devlin pulls out his phone and makes a call. "Captain Nelson, we have another incident. Someone accessed Miss O'Rourke's computer overnight and corrupted her research files. We need IT forensics and security footage review for this building." He listens for a moment. "Understood. We're in her office now."
He ends the call and looks at me with an expression that's both protective and understanding. "Nelson is sending someone from IT to see what can be recovered. In the meantime, don't touch anything else on the computer. It's evidence now."
