“You said you thought you had to be perfect to matter. To be seen.” I glance at her. “You’re the loudest person in my world. You have been since you hit me with that pepper spray.”
She laughs—wet, shaky.
“That’s a terrible meet-cute.”
“It’s ours.”
I lift her hand. Press my lips to her knuckles.
“You matter. Not because of your cases or your grades or your goddamn spelling bee trophies. You matter because you’re you. Because you fight. Because you don’t quit. Because you see things other people miss and you refuse to look away.”
“I’m starting to believe that.”
“Good. Because I’m going to keep telling you until you do.”
The road narrows as we cross into West Virginia. Gravel under tires. Trees pressing close on both sides, their bare branches scratching at the sky like skeletal fingers. The last of the daylight bleeds out behind the ridge line, turning the world to shades of gray and shadow.
“Should be the next turn. Blackwood Road.”
I slow the van. Kill the headlights. We creep forward, the engine a low murmur in the gathering dark.
The turnoff appears—a dirt track cutting through the trees, marked only by a faded sign half-swallowed by undergrowth. I drive past and stop the van a quarter mile out. Kill the engine.
Binoculars up. I scan the perimeter, moving systematically from left to right. Looking for the things that shouldn’t be there. The shadows that move wrong. The glints of metal that might be cameras, tripwires, or worse.
The facility appears through the trees: Chain-link fence topped with razor wire, rusted in places where the weather has eaten through the galvanizing. Industrial buildings—prefab metal, institutional gray, the kind of anonymous architecture that screams government contract. Three structures visible: a main building, a smaller outbuilding, and what appears to be a generator shed. No lights. No vehicles. No movement.
The gate is open. Swinging slightly in the wind.
“What do you see?”
“It’s been cleared.”
“How can you tell?”
“No guards. No patrols. Gate’s not just unlocked—it’s abandoned. Look at the weeds growing through the gravel by the entrance. That’s at least a week of neglect. Maybe two.” I lower the binoculars. “Whoever was here left in a hurry.”
“Or they want us to think that.”
“Maybe.” I check my weapon. Magazine seated. Round chambered. “Ghost said recon only.”
“And?”
“And that was before we drove six hours to find an empty facility.” I look at her. “Whatever Stratton was storing here, they moved it. But people in a hurry leave things behind.”
“Evidence.”
“Maybe.”
She meets my gaze. Steady. Ready. Not the frightened attorney from DC. Something harder. Something forged.
“We go in. Together.”
“Cassie—”
“You need someone watching your back. And I need to see what I almost died for.”
I stare at her for a long moment. The woman who pepper-sprayed me in a Georgetown apartment. The woman who climbed down a fire escape under gunfire. The woman who jumped out a window because I asked her to trust me. The woman who somehow became the only thing in my life worth protecting.
