“Chris—”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. After the briefing. I promise.”
Another silence. I can almost hear her deciding whether to push harder.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Tomorrow. But we’re going to talk. Really talk.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Get some sleep.”
“You too.”
She hangs up. I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, knowing I won’t sleep, knowing tomorrow I have to face her and pretend I’m not falling apart.
The briefing goes as well as it can. McIntyre’s satisfied with Tatiana’s intelligence, authorizes the Thanksgiving operation, reminds me to keep my shit together and not compromise the asset relationship.
Walsh briefs the Rafael Marcano situation—fabricated identity, digital ghost, credit card activity placing him in Los Angeles for at least two weeks. No photo, no physical description. Working two angles: tracking his limited financial footprint and trying to unmask who he really is.
“The timing concerns me,” McIntyre says. “Our asset inside the Serbian network confirms a contract was activated around the same time this guy shows up in LA. That’s not a coincidence.”
“Could be one of the hitters,” Walsh says. “Positioning early, doing reconnaissance.”
“Or someone else entirely. Keep working it. I want to know who this guy is.”
“We’re pushing, but he’s careful. Could take a while to get a visual.”
The briefing moves on to operational parameters for Thanksgiving. I don’t mention the recordings. Don’t mention that I’m barely sleeping, that I can’t be alone with Vicente without risking complete psychological collapse.
Professional compartmentalization. It’s what I’m good at.
Wyatt handles the DEA coordination. We’re officially cleared for joint observation operation, intelligence gathering only, no tactical intervention unless there’s immediate threat to civilian life.
The briefing wraps by noon. Wyatt joined from Nina’s living room—I could see the edge of her couch in the frame, hear Nikita meowing in the background.
McIntyre and Walsh sign off. I close the laptop. My phone buzzes almost immediately.
WYATT: Come over.
CHRIS: Not sure that’s a good idea.
WYATT: She’s not going to push. But you can’t avoid this forever. Just come.
He’s right. I’ve been using work as an excuse to stay away, but tomorrow’s coming whether I’m ready or not.
I drive to Cheviot Hills on autopilot, mind half on the road, half still in that briefing room where I had to pretend Thursday was just another operation.
I park behind Wyatt’s car. Sit for a moment looking at Nina’s house through the windshield. Warm lights in the windows that remind me this place has people in it who give a damn whether I come back. That’s what home means, I guess. Not the place itself, but the people who notice when you’re gone.
I get out of the car. Walk to the door. Stand there for a moment with my hand raised, debating. If this is home, I shouldn’t have to knock. But three days of absence feels like forfeiting that right.
I turn the handle. It’s unlocked.
Nina’s in the kitchen when I walk in. She looks better—color back in her face, moving without the careful stiffness of early recovery. When she sees me, relief flickers across her face before hope settles in behind it.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
