“This route doesn’t make sense,” she says on the second day, jabbing a finger at one of the manifests. “They’re moving product through the harbor on Tuesdays, but there’s a gap here—see? Every third week, nothing. No shipments, no pickups, no activity.”
I lean forward. “What does that tell you?”
“Either they’re resting the route to avoid pattern detection, or—” She pauses, frowning. “Or they’re using that window for something else. It’s big. They don’t want it on the regular books.”
I take the manifest from her, scanning the dates. She’s right. There’s a gap. Every third Tuesday, like clockwork.
“I’ll have our analysts look into it.”
She grins, smug and satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” She leans back on her hands, watching me with those storm-grey eyes. “Admit it. I’m useful.”
“You’re adequate.”
“High praise from a man who probably irons his socks.”
I almost smile. Almost. “I don’t iron my socks.”
“But you thought about it, didn’t you? At least once.”
I stand, gathering the documents. “Get some rest. I’ll bring more tomorrow.”
“Leone.”
I stop at the door.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For letting me do something. For not—” She gestures vaguely at the room, the cameras, the locked door. “For not making me feel useless.”
I don’t know what to say. So, I nod once and leave.
In the hallway, I press my back against the wall and close my eyes.
The ghost of Dahlia whispers in my ear, soft and sad:You know what happens when you let someone in.
I do.
I remember everything.
And I’m starting to think it doesn’t matter.
She’s already under my skin. Already in my head. Already taking up space I swore I’d never give anyone again.
I push off the wall and walk toward my quarters.
Three days.
That’s all it took.
I’m fucked.
Chapter Four: Alexandra
Iwakeupthinkingabout patterns.
Not the kind on the wallpaper—though God knows I’ve memorized every swirl and flourish of this burgundy nightmare—but the kind that get people killed. The shipping manifests Leone brought me yesterday are still spread across the desk, and even with my eyes closed, I can see the gaps. Every third Tuesday. Like someone punched holes in a calendar and forgot to explain why.
