He disabled it in under a minute. The work was familiar, almost meditative—disconnecting the trigger mechanism, ensuring the bypass wouldn’t register as a fault in whatever monitoring system they’d set up. His hands knew what to do even when his conscious mind was running parallel processes, tracking their time exposure, calculating how long they had before someone might notice the disruption.
Going in here was the best option now that he’d rerouted the system. He pulled, the window sliding open with a soft scrape of wood against wood. Without a word, he boosted Morgan through first, then followed, pulling himself over the sill with an economy of motion that came from years of training he’d never imagined using in this manner.
Her apartment was dark. Still. The air carried that particular staleness of a space that had been closed up too long—dust and absence, the ghost of a life interrupted. Lincoln’s eyes adjusted slowly, shapes resolving from shadows into furniture, walls, the architecture of Morgan’s existence before everything changed.
He watched her move through the rooms. This had been her life, and everything about it fairly screamed Morgan.
Books were everywhere—shelves overflowing along every wall, stacked on surfaces, piled beside chairs. A reading chair by the window with an afghan draped over the back, the fabric faded in patterns that suggested years of use. A kitchen that looked barely functional, more decorative than practical, the kind of space someone passed through rather than inhabited.
Morgan touched things as she passed them. Running her fingers along book spines. Adjusting a picture frame that had shifted slightly on its hook. Orienting herself. Cataloging. Lincoln could see her mind working—comparing what was to what had been, identifying the discrepancies.
“Someone’s been here.” Her voice came out quiet. Certain. “The books on that shelf are out of order.”
Lincoln looked at the shelf she’d indicated. The spines were aligned neatly, nothing obviously disturbed to his eye. But Morgan would know. Morgan would see the difference between where things were and where they should be.
Her memory seemed to be working fine when she wasn’t drowning in Randall’s data. Maybe the coordinates and codes and endless strings of numbers weren’tdestroyingher capacity—they were creating interference. Crowding out the signals she needed with noise she couldn’t filter, making it seem like the signals weren’t there anymore.
Lincoln moved through the apartment systematically, checking for devices. He found the first one in the smoke detector—a small camera, lens barely visible, positioned to capture anyone who entered through the main door. The second was more clever: hidden in a bookshelf, tucked behind a row of paperbacks, aimed at the living area.
Both were recording, not transmitting live. Storage cards, not real-time feeds. They hadn’t wanted to alert anyone the moment Morgan returned—they’d wanted footage. Evidence, maybe. Or just confirmation that their asset had come back to collect her things.
He disabled both cameras. Took the memory cards and slipped them into his pocket. The footage might be useful later, depending on what angles they’d captured, what patterns their placement revealed about the people who’d installed them.
Morgan had moved toward the bedroom. Lincoln followed, staying close enough to respond if something went wrong, far enough to give her space for whatever came next.
She went to the closet. Reached up to the top shelf, her fingers finding a box pushed back into the corner. When she pulled it down, her hands were trembling.
She opened the lid.
Lincoln watched her whole body change.
The tension that had been holding her together—the rigid spine, the controlled breathing, the careful movements of someone expecting the worst—released all at once. Hershoulders dropped. Her chin fell toward her chest. Her arms wrapped around the box like she was embracing something precious, something she’d been afraid she’d lost forever.
He stood in the doorway and felt something crack open in his own chest. He’d watched her suffer for days now—the nightmares, the panic attacks, the seeming slow erosion of her memory.
He’d held her through the worst of it and told himself he understood. But watching her now, watching the way she clung to that box like it was the last piece of solid ground in a world that kept dissolving beneath her feet—he understood that he’d only seen the surface.
He thought about his own parents. His cousins. The sprawling network of Bollingers who’d spent thirty years making room for his quirks, translating his bluntness, pulling him back into the world when he drifted too far into his own head. He’d never had to wonder if he was loved. Never had to keep letters in a box to remind himself that he’d been real to someone.
Morgan had grown up reaching for that certainty and finding empty air.
The ache behind his ribs sharpened into something fierce. He wanted to cross the room and hold her. Wanted to tell her that she’d never have to keep proof again, that he would spend the rest of his life making sure she knew she was wanted. As a friend, as a lover, as maybe more.
But this moment wasn’t about him. This moment was hers—hers and Ms. Delacroix’s—and his purpose was to stand guard and let her have it.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. He tracked the time in his head—seven minutes since they’d entered, twelve since they’d left the vehicle—but he didn’t say anything. Some things mattered more than operational efficiency.
He never thought he’d hear those words in his own head.
Finally, Morgan moved. She set the box down on the bed, still open, and reached for a few other things. A photograph in a simple frame—Lincoln caught a glimpse of an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes before Morgan tucked it into the box. A worn paperback, spine cracked, pages soft with handling. Small items that meant something only to her.
“Okay.” Her voice came out rough. “I’m ready.”
They left the way they’d come. Window first, then around the building, staying low, keeping to cover. Lincoln’s attention had shifted fully into threat assessment mode now—scanning the tree line, the road in both directions, any movement that might indicate they’d been spotted.
Nothing. The afternoon stretched quiet around them, insects humming, wind moving through the grass. Normal sounds. Innocent sounds. The kinds of sounds that could mask an ambush if you weren’t careful.
They made it back to the vehicle without incident, but he didn’t relax. Relaxation was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
