That alone catches my attention.
The rest follow the same pattern. Different locations. Different men. Always candid. Always circled. No notes. No names. Nothing to tell me what I’m supposed to be looking at.
I don’t understand what I’m looking at. But I know enough to recognize when something has been collected deliberately.
This isn’t a hobby nor is it curiosity for curiosity’s sake. Someone took the time to document these moments, then hid them where they wouldn’t be stumbled across.
That matters.
I think of my father without meaning to. Of the way information is currency in his world, even incomplete information. Especially incomplete information. Sometimes all it takes is a detail that refuses to line up cleanly.
I don’t know if these photos would mean anything tohim. Maybe they wouldn’t. But I know he’d want to see them before dismissing them outright.
I gather the stack together, careful not to bend the edges. I don’t feel scared so much as focused. If I ever walk out of here, I want to leave with more than questions.
I return everything else as carefully as I can. The ledger goes back into the drawer, and the drawer eased shut. I move quietly through the bunker, heart beating hard enough that I’m aware of it in my throat.
In the bedroom Ridge designated as mine, I lift the mattress just enough to slide the photos between the fabric and the frame. My hands aren’t steady, but I force them to be precise. If I ever get out of here, I want these with me.
I smooth the sheets, step back.
The sound of a lock turning cuts through the air.
The click is sharp and sudden, and heat rushes up my spine. I was in the office seconds ago. If I’d hesitated even a few seconds longer, he would have caught me.
The thought hits hard enough to disrupt my breathing. I force it to steady. Getting sloppy now would end badly.
I’ve got to pull it together.
A door opens down the hall. The sound carries, amplified by the bunker’s walls, and the space contracts around me.
I draw a steady breath and still my hands before they give me away. My pulse stutters once sharply, before I force it back into line.
I can hear rustling in the other room. Whatever it is, it gives me a little more time to calm my breathing.
There are three soft taps on the half-open door to the bedroom before it pushes open fully.
Ridge stands in the hall, his silhouette filling the doorway, the dim light from the hall outlining his shoulders. The room seems to adjust around him, recalculatingspace. His eyes sweep the room before landing on me.
Awareness comes first. Then restraint. My body remembers him before I allow it to, and I resent that more than the fear threading through me.
“Are you finding everything you need here?” he asks.
His tone is casual. The weight behind it isn’t.
“Ahh, yes, thank you,” I say, lifting one shoulder. I aim for indifference and land somewhere close enough to pass.
His gaze sharpens. “You seem on edge.”
“I think the quiet is getting to me,” I reply. The truth, trimmed down. “And the lock disengaging startled me for a second. I guess I’m used to the silence.”
His eyes soften, just a fraction, and the shift unsettles me more than suspicion would have. He glances back toward the hallway.
“This place carries sound,” he says. “It echoes.”
Unsettling doesn’t begin to cover it. I cross my arms, grounding myself in the motion.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice even. “How was your day? I’m sure it was much more interesting than mine.”
