“Thank you,” Nora said softly. “For everything. For believing me, for protecting me, for...” She gestured around the apartment. “For all of this. I know it’s not protocol. I know you’re taking risks.”
“You’re worth the risk.”
The words hung between them, heavier than they should be. More meaningful.
Nora’s pulse quickened. “Carson—”
“I need to make some calls,” he said abruptly, straightening. “About the case. You’ll be okay out here for a bit?”
She recognized the deflection for what it was. Him pulling back. Maintaining distance.
But she’d seen the way he looked at her. Heard the roughness in his voice when he’d said she was worth the risk.
This wasn’t just professional. Not for either of them.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
Carson nodded and disappeared into what she assumed was his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Nora stood alone in his kitchen, coffee growing cold in her hands, wondering how long they could keep pretending this was just about the case.
***
By noon, Nora was going stir-crazy.
She’d tried working on her laptop, but couldn’t focus. Tried reading a book on her phone, but the words blurred together. Tried watching TV, but every show felt frivolous compared to the danger lurking outside these walls.
She ended up pacing the living room, restless energy building with nowhere to go.
Carson emerged from his bedroom, laptop under his arm. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just...restless.”
He studied her for a moment, then set his laptop on the dining table. “Come here.”
Nora approached cautiously. Carson pulled up a chair and gestured for her to sit.
“What are we doing?”
“You said you hate feeling helpless. So don’t be helpless. Help me with the case.”
He turned his laptop screen toward her. A document filled with names, dates, connections—everything he’d compiled on Eugene.
“I need to find the pattern,” Carson said. “Eugene’s been targeting women in your building for at least eighteen months. But I think it goes back further. I think he’s been doing this for years, in different places, under different names.”
Nora leaned closer, scanning the document. “How do I help?”
“You’re an accountant. You see patterns in numbers, in data. Look at this.” He pulledup a spreadsheet. “These are the women I’ve identified so far who might be Eugene’s victims. Different buildings, different cities, but all in Washington state. All within a two-hour drive of Blackridge.”
Nora studied the spreadsheet. Eight women, spanning five years. Each one had reported similar incidents—feeling watched, things moved, unexplained intrusions. Each one had eventually moved or broken their lease.
“The timing,” she said slowly. “He stays at each building for about six to eight months, then moves on. Like he’s cycling through locations.”
“Exactly. But why? What’s the pattern?”
Nora pulled the laptop closer, her analytical mind engaging despite her fear. She added columns, reorganized data, looked for connections.
“They all worked in finance or accounting,” she said after a few minutes. “Look—this woman was a bank teller. This one worked for an insurance company. This one was a CPA.”
