"No. It happened while I was at breakfast, but they went through everything. My files, my laptop, my clothes." Her breath hitches. "They left a photo of me outside the Forge with a message on the back."
"What does it say?"
"You're getting too close." She pauses. "Shaw, they know where I'm staying. They know what I'm investigating. They were in my room."
"Lock the door. Deadbolt and chain. Don't open it for anyone but me." I'm already moving, grabbing my keys. "I'm coming."
I make it to her hotel in seven minutes. Mira lets me in immediately, face pale but controlled. Professional mask firmly in place even though I can see the fear underneath.
The room's been searched—not trashed, but someone went through her things methodically. Professional. Careful. Maybe both. They were looking for something specific or sending a message.
The photo sits on the bed. Mira outside the Forge, taken from across the street. Good quality, telephoto lens. Someone with resources. The back of the photo has block letters in marker:YOU'RE GETTING TOO CLOSE.
Cold rage settles in my chest, controlled and focused.
"Pack a bag," I say. "You're not staying here."
"Shaw—"
"Not negotiable. Someone broke into your room, went through your files, left a direct threat. You're moving to my place where I can actually keep you safe."
"You offered me the guest room last night," she says quietly. "Keeping distance even after?—"
"Fuck distance." I face her fully. "You're already in danger. Someone's targeting you because of this investigation, and I'll be damned if I let them get to you because I was worried about maintaining professional boundaries."
She searches my face. Whatever she finds there makes her shoulders drop. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."
While she packs, I take photos of the room, document everything, bag the threatening photo as evidence. Someone breaking into her hotel room, leaving threats—this crossed a line from property crime to personal targeting. Whoever's setting these fires just made this about Mira specifically.
They made it about someone under my protection… that's a mistake they're going to regret.
Fifteen minutes later, we're pulling into my driveway. Her suitcase is strapped to the bike, her laptop bag over her shoulder, tension written in every line of her body despite the morning sun warming the pavement.
Inside, I set her bags in the living room. "Coffee first. Then we figure out next steps."
She nods, following me to the kitchen. I start the pot while she sinks into a chair at the table, staring at nothing.
"They were in my room, Shaw." Her voice is quiet. "Going through my things. My notes on the case. Everything."
"I know." I pour two cups, set one in front of her. "Which means we're close enough to make someone nervous."
"Or we've pissed off the wrong person."
"Probably both." I lean against the counter. "But whoever it is just escalated from property crime to direct threats. That's desperation. People get sloppy when they're desperate."
She wraps her hands around the mug. "What about the hotel? Do we report this to local PD?"
"Already called it in on the way here. They'll process the scene, but I doubt they'll find much. Whoever did this was careful." I move to sit across from her. "We'll figure out next steps once we know what they found."
We spend the next few hours checking her files to make sure nothing was taken, cross-referencing with the copies I have at my place. Whoever broke in saw her notes on Cascade Services, saw the financial pattern she'd identified, saw everything we have.
By late afternoon, exhaustion is pulling at both of us. The adrenaline from the break-in has worn off, leaving nothing but fatigue.
"Get some rest," I tell her. "My room. You're not sleeping alone after what just happened."
"Shaw—"
"Not up for debate." I meet her eyes. "Someone broke into your hotel room this morning and left a direct threat. You're not sleeping in a room by yourself where I can't see you. My bed, my room, where I know you're safe."
