"Ready when you are, Doc," Martinez says.
We head through the main entrance together. He's polite, professional, keeps appropriate distance. But he's not Thatcher, and that bothers me more than it should.
My office door is ajar when we reach the administrative wing. I always lock it.
Martinez sees it the same time I do. His hand moves to his sidearm. "Stay back, Doc."
But I'm already pushing the door open. Papers lie scattered across the floor. Desk drawers hang open, contents dumped everywhere. The filing cabinet gapes, folders pulled and tossed. My computer monitor is dark, the tower underneath flickering with a light that shouldn't be on.
My files are everywhere—consultation notes, administrative paperwork, research materials strewn across the floor like trash. The framed diplomas on the wall are crooked. My coffee mug is knocked over, brown liquid pooling across papers on my desk.
This wasn't just a search. This is a message.
"Don't touch anything," Martinez says, already on his phone. "Captain Caine needs to see this. So does NCIS."
I pull out my phone and call Thatcher anyway.
He answers on the first ring. "Gwen?"
"My office was searched. Everything's torn apart."
His voice goes hard and tactical. "Stay out of there. I'm calling Rivera. On my way. Lock the door and wait in the hallway."
"I—"
"Go. Now."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I step back into the hallway, lock the door, and lean against the wall opposite. Martinez positions himself near the door, alert. Hospital staff walk past—nurses heading to morning rounds, residents clutching coffee cups. Nobody looks at me twice.
Whoever did this wanted my documentation. They're looking for what I know, what I can prove.
Someone was in my space, touching my things, looking through my files.
Thatcher arrives faster than I expected, with Rivera close behind. An evidence tech follows them, carrying camera equipment. Martinez steps forward to brief them, then Thatcher dismisses him with a nod.
"Show me," Thatcher says.
I unlock the door and step aside. Thatcher and Rivera enter with the evidence tech behind them. Rivera pulls out her phone immediately and starts making calls. Thatcher comes back to stand next to me in the hallway.
"Anything missing?" he asks quietly.
"I don't know yet. I didn't touch anything to check."
His mouth becomes a hard line. "They're looking for evidence. They know you gave NCIS your documentation, but they want to know what else you have."
His voice drops lower. "We'll go by your place and you can pack a bag. You're staying at my place until this is over."
"Thatcher—"
"They know where you work. They probably know where your apartment is too." His eyes meet mine. "We'll move you to my place. They might not think to look for you there. This isn't a suggestion."
The presumption rankles. After last night, after I called him out for making decisions for me, here he is doing it again.
"You can't just?—"
Agent Rivera emerges from the office. "Dr. Abernathy, we'll need you to do a full inventory once we process the scene. Could take a few hours."
