“So why isn’t anyone around?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you run this place on your own?”
I shake my head once. “No.”
I tell her about the way we operate—about the multiple sites, the constant rotation. How we’re never in one place long enough for anyone to map us, watch us, or settle into assumptions. We move before patterns can form. Before anyone can get comfortable.
It’s a system that’s kept us alive for years.
“And it’s not one we break,” I finish, because some rules exist for a reason.
She listens carefully, like she always does, absorbing more than I’m saying out loud. And I get the sense she understands exactly why a place like this can’t afford to stand still.
“What does a person have to do to join Goliath?” she asks, curiosity bright in her eyes. Like a bird tilting its head, testing the air.
“You offering your services?” I say, a smirk cutting across my mouth before I can stop it.
She shrugs lightly. “It sounds… interesting. What you do here.”
I exhale and lean back. “There’s an intensive vetting process. And generally, you don’t apply. You’re recruited. Brought in by a founding member.”
Her brows knit. “Founding member?”
“The people who built Goliath,” I say. “They had a rule from the start. You only bring in people who’ve lost someone to violent crime. A disappearance. A kidnapping. A murder.” I pause. “It worked, for a while. Then secrecy became a problem. Goliath doesn’t advertise. No one knows how to find us. So eventually, we had to start looking for our own.”
“And now?” she asks.
“It’s mostly the same,” I tell her. “But in certain cases, exceptions are made.”
She studies that for a second. “So… would someone like me be eligible? I lost my sister to a violent crime.”
I don’t answer right away.
“You’d meet the initial requirement,” I say carefully. “But there’s a lot more to it than that, Rowan.” I watch her closely. “Why would you even want this? You have a future. A law career.”
She goes still. She stops chewing, sets the plate down like she doesn’t trust her hands anymore. She takes a drink of water, swallows hard before she responds.
“One day,” she murmurs quietly, “I’ll tell you the whole story about Missy.” Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins. “But knowing how her case was handled—how little justice there was—what it did to my family… I can’t believe we’re the only ones.”
She lifts her eyes to mine then. Steady. Certain.
“You’re right,” I say finally. My voice is low, steady. Certain in a way I don’t offer lightly. “You’re not the only ones.”
Her breath leaves her in a slow exhale, like the truth settles somewhere deep and painful and relieving all at once.
I don’t see a victim when I look at her. And for the first timein a long while, I’m not wondering how to stop the darkness. I’m wondering how far she’s willing to step into the light.
Rowan is curledon the bed, wrapped in one of the spare blankets, her knees drawn up, hair loose around her face. She looks smaller like this. Human in a way she hasn’t let herself be in a long time.
She’s watching me with that steady, thoughtful focus she always has, like she’s cataloguing my reactions, filing them away for later.
“Can I go home?” she asks.
The question is soft. Hopeful. Careful.
Something in my chest tightens.
I shake my head once. Slow. No hesitation. “Not yet.”
Her brow creases, but she doesn’t bristle. That matters. “Because of the man last night?”
