I return to the conference room. Sela's been waiting, her exhaustion showing in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her shoulders sag.
"We've got a meeting with an FBI agent tomorrow morning. Ruth Calder. Works with Rebecca Macintosh's organization. If she's clean, she can push this investigation through channels Haywood can't touch."
Sela stands. "And if she's not clean?"
"Then we leak everything and run."
We head out to my truck. The drive back is tense, both of us watching for tails. Darkness has fallen completely now, headlights cutting through it.
"I'm tired of running," she finally says.
"I know."
"Emma didn't run. She found and documented evidence. And they killed her for it."
"You're not Emma."
"No." Her voice hardens. "But I've got what she died protecting. And I'm not letting Haywood win."
11
SELA
I've been reviewing Emma's files since before dawn.
The guest cabin at Finn and Cara's place is quiet, just the hum of my laptop and wind rattling the windows. My laptop sits open on the desk, Jackie Nielsen's testimony paused mid-sentence. Emma's notes spread across the bed in careful stacks: coded observations in medical shorthand, evidence she died protecting, evidence I'm about to hand over to a stranger.
The meeting's soon, and Anchorage is a drive out.
Coffee appears in front of me. Marc's already dressed for whatever comes next: tactical pants, dark shirt, sidearm at his hip. He scans the files, then looks at me.
"You haven't moved in a while."
"I keep thinking I missed something. Some detail that proves this was worth Emma's life."
He sets a mug on the desk. "It was. Is. Haywood killed her to bury this. That alone makes it worth everything."
I take the coffee, let the heat ground me. "What if Calder can't move fast enough?"
"Then we make sure Haywood can't either." His voice carries that absolute certainty I've come to recognize. "You ready?"
"No. But I'm doing it anyway."
"Good enough."
The industrial complex on Anchorage's outskirts looks abandoned: cracked pavement, rusted loading docks, buildings with shattered windows. Perfect for a meeting you don't want observed. A black SUV sits near the far dock, engine off. Harlow's truck is parked behind the nearest building.
Marc parks where we can watch the vehicle and every access road. His hand rests on his weapon as we climb out.
The SUV's door opens. A woman steps out, lean and fit with graying hair pulled back, moving with the efficiency of someone who's spent years in the field. Business casual under a heavy jacket, holster visible at her hip. Everything about her screams federal agent.
"Marc Wells." She extends a hand. "Agent Ruth Calder."
Marc's handshake is brief. "This is Sela Mitchell."
Calder's grip is firm, assessing. "Ms. Mitchell. Harlow's told me about you. And Emma Blackwater."
"Here's hoping it helps."
