Paranoia. She was fine. She was at his house, which was as secure as he could make it. She had his security system. She knew not to answer the door.
He pocketed the phone.
But the knot in his stomach, the one there since he left her this morning, kept tightening.
43
Rachel pushed back from the laptop, blinking against the burn in her eyes. Her shoulders felt like someone had driven nails between the blades, and when she rolled her neck, it cracked audibly in the quiet room.
Hours. She'd been at this for hours, cross-referencing timestamps, decrypting file layers, tracing shipment codes through multiple shell corporations until the patterns emerged. Officers who should have been stationed in different time zones appearing in the same locations. Orders that bypassed proper channels. Transfer routes that made no tactical sense unless you understood what was really being moved. And the financials, those damning threads of money flowing through supposedly secure channels, all pointing back to names she now knew by heart.
No more guesswork. She had proof.
Proof that could end careers. Destroy reputations. Send people to prison. Proof that could also get her killed if the wrong people knew she had it.
Rachel closed the laptop with deliberate care, her fingers trembling slightly as she ran through the encryption protocol one last time. She slid it into the hidden compartment inside the credenza, Ghost's modification, installed after she'd started digging into classified files. The biometric scanner read her thumbprint and the panel sealed with a muffled thunk. As safe as it could be in a beach house that wasn't designed to be a fortress.
She stood, her legs stiff from sitting cross-legged for too long. When she stretched, her spine popped in three places and she had to bite back a groan. Her reflection in the dresser mirror looked tired, loose jean shorts and one of Ghost's old gray T-shirts, the fabric worn soft from years of washing. The collar had stretched out on one side, and it clung to the curve of her waist in a way that made it obvious it was meant for someone broader through the shoulders. She'd stolen it from his laundry two days ago. It still carried traces of his scent, clean soap and cedar and salt air, the smell of him she'd learned to recognize without thinking.
The files sat heavy in her mind. Images of manifests. Coded communications. Bank transfers that would make a prosecutor salivate.
She needed to move. Her whole body ached from hunching over the laptop for hours.
Rachel crossed to the front window, rolling her shoulders as she walked. The movement helped, but not enough. She stretched her arms overhead, felt her spine lengthen and pop in a few places, then bent sideways, working out the knots.
Beyond the glass, Coronado unfolded in lazy afternoon perfection. Palm fronds shifted in the breeze, their shadows dancing across sunlit pavement. The bay at the end of the street threw back fragments of light, turning the water into a canvas of blue and silver. A Jeep rolled past with two surfboards strapped to the roof rack, the driver's arm hanging out the window, fingers drumming against the door in time with music she couldn't hear.
Everything looked so beautifully, impossibly normal.
Then movement across the street caught her eye.
An elderly woman in a bright floral blouse, the kind with oversized tropical flowers that belonged to a different decade, was making her way down the sidewalk. Mrs. Chen. Rachel had seen her tending her roses a few mornings ago, the older woman offering a friendly wave when she noticed Rachel on the porch.
Mrs. Chen's canvas walking shoe caught the lip of broken concrete.
One moment the woman was upright, the next she was pitching forward with nothing to grab onto. She hit the ground hard, the impact audible even through the window.
Rachel was out the door before conscious thought caught up with instinct. The late afternoon heat hit her face as she bolted across the street, her bare feet slapping against asphalt still radiating warmth from hours of sun. A car horn blared somewhere behind her but she didn't slow.
By the time Rachel dropped to her knees beside Mrs. Chen, the older woman was already trying to push herself up, her face pale and eyes slightly unfocused.
"I've got you," Rachel said, her hands hovering just above Mrs. Chen's shoulders. "Don't try to move yet. Let me see where you're hurt."
Mrs. Chen blinked up at her, confusion giving way to embarrassed recognition. "Oh my goodness. I didn't see that crack in the, "
"It's okay." Rachel kept her voice gentle while her eyes cataloged the damage. Both knees were scraped raw, already beginning to bleed through torn stockings. Mrs. Chen's palms were abraded from trying to catch herself, one showing a deeper cut that welled red. But nothing looked broken. No odd angles or swelling yet. "Does anything feel wrong? Your wrist, your hip?"
"I... I don't think so. Just my pride." Mrs. Chen attempted a shaky smile.
"Pride heals faster than bones. Can you sit up for me?" Rachel slid an arm behind the woman's back, supporting her weight as Mrs. Chen slowly pushed upright. The older woman winced but managed it, breathing hard.
"There we go. Nice and slow." Rachel kept her grip firm, waiting until Mrs. Chen's breathing steadied. "Think you can stand?"
"I should be able to."
Rachel stood first, then braced herself to take most of Mrs. Chen's weight. The older woman gripped her forearm and rose unsteadily, testing each joint. Shaky, but everything seemed to be working.
"Let's get you home," Rachel said, keeping one hand on Mrs. Chen's elbow as they started a slow shuffle toward the pale yellow house.
