“People who commit murder in broad daylight.”
That gets his attention. His eyes flick to mine in the mirror. “Come again?”
“Victor said he was being watched.” My fingers find my collarbone, pressing into the scar tissue there. Grounding myself.
Morrison reaches into his jacket and produces a plain business card. No name, no logo. Just ten digits in black ink.
“If something happens to me, call this number.” He presses it into my palm. “These people operate outside the system. They’re ghosts.”
“That’s paranoid, even for you.”
“After what you just witnessed?” His smile lacks humor. “Paranoia seems like basic math.”
He pulls over six blocks from my building. “Go home, pack light, get somewhere safe. I’ll dig into this quietly, build a case the right way. I’ll contact you when I have protection in place.”
“James—”
“No arguments. You know what these people are capable of.”
I exit without another word. Morrison’s taillights disappear into traffic, red dots swallowed by the city.
At my apartment door, I check for signs of tampering. Doorframe dust undisturbed. Lock scratches match my key pattern. The wood around the deadbolt shows no fresh marks. Inside, Nathan’s boxes line the hallway—monuments to last night’s relationship funeral.
I step around them, each one labeled in my precise handwriting: “Kitchen - Fragile,” “Books - Study,” “Bedroom - Misc.” Three years condensed into cardboard and packing tape.
The laptop waits on my kitchen counter. The USB slides into the port with a soft click. Files cascade across the screen—spreadsheets, documents, video files. Deaths, cover-ups, payoffs, all meticulously documented. Victor’s obsessive nature might be the only reason these victims get justice.
I create more copies. One hidden behind the bathroom mirror. One under the kitchen drawer. One in the freezer inside a vacuum-sealed bag labeled “Soup Stock 3/15.”
Redundancies. Paranoid people live longer.
The espresso machine on the counter catches my eye—the Williams-Sonoma model I bought Nathan for Christmas. I calculated how much we’d save versus daily coffee shop visits. Practical. Analytical.
“Three years of this, Talia.”His voice echoes from last night, when everything finally shattered.“Three years of calculated responses, measured reactions. You don’t feel things—you process them. You simulate emotions because real ones might mess up your data.”
“That’s not fair?—”
“Isn’t it?”He stepped closer, his cologne sharp and pungent.“When we make love, you’re cataloging responses. When we fight, you’re analyzing patterns.”
My throat tightened.“I do love you.”
“No.”His laugh was bitter.“You’ve determined that saying those words produces optimal relationship outcomes.”
The memory hurts more than the bruises on my knees from the pavement.
The television drones in the background as I work, local news recycling the same stories. I’m only half-listening, hands moving automatically to hide more copies in the cloud, when the anchor’s tone shifts—that particular cadence that signals breaking news.
“This just in. FBI Special Agent James Morrison was found dead in his office at the Federal Building, an apparent suicide according to preliminary reports. Morrison, a twenty-year veteran of the Bureau, was discovered by cleaning staff at approximately 6:45 PM …”
The room tilts.
Morrison. Dead. “Suicide.”
The screen fills with his official photo—dress blues, American flag behind him, slight smile that never reached his eyes. Then crime scene footage—yellow tape, dark suits guarding the entrance, rain making everything look like a fever dream.
“Preliminary reports indicate a self-inflicted gunshot wound,” the anchor continues. “Morrison left no note.”
No note. Morrison would never kill himself without explaining why. The man documented everything.
