Carson leaned over her shoulder, so close she could feel his warmth. “He’s targeting women in financial professions.”
“Because of what happened to his father. The embezzlement. He blames accountants for his dad’s arrest and suicide.” Nora kept typing, pulling up more information. “And look at this—three of these women worked for companies that were clients of Morrison & Associates.”
“Your firm.”
“My firm.” The realization made her stomach turn. “He’s been targeting women connected to the firm that fired his father. Building up to me.”
Carson’s hand landed on her shoulder, grounding. “You’re brilliant. This is exactly what I needed.”
The praise shouldn’t have mattered so much. But it did. Because for the first time in days, Nora felt useful. Capable. Like she was doing something instead of just being a victim.
“Let me keep digging,” she said. “There might be more connections we’re missing.”
Carson squeezed her shoulder once, then moved to grab his phone. “I’m calling Finn. If you’re right about this pattern, we can predict where Eugene might have been before Blackridge. Find more victims, more evidence.”
He stepped away to make the call, and Nora dove deeper into the data. This was what she was good at—finding patterns, connecting dots, making sense of chaos through numbers and analysis.
She could do this. She could help catch the man who’d terrorized her.
For the first time since this nightmare began, Nora felt a flicker of hope.
***
They worked together for hours, Nora at the laptop, Carson on his phone coordinating with otherdetectives. The afternoon sun shifted across the living room, and somewhere along the way, the distance between them shrank.
Carson would lean over her shoulder to point at something on the screen. Nora would turn to ask a question and find him inches away. Their hands would brush when reaching for the same document.
Small touches. Accidental proximity. The kind of tension that built slowly, degree by degree, until the air felt charged.
Around four PM, Nora’s stomach growled loudly.
Carson looked up from his phone. “When did you last eat?”
“Breakfast. The toast you made.”
“That was twelve hours ago.” He stood, pocketing his phone. “I’m making you lunch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do. You can’t help solve this case if you pass out from hunger.” He moved to the kitchen, opening cabinets. “How do you feel about grilled cheese?”
“I feel very positive about grilled cheese.”
Nora closed the laptop and joined him in the kitchen, watching as he pulled out bread and cheese with efficient movements. He’d rolled up his sleeves at some point, and she found herself staring at his forearms—strong and corded with muscle, with a thin scar running along his left wrist.
“How’d you get that?” she asked, gesturing to the scar.
Carson glanced down. “Knife fight. Three years ago. Suspect didn’t want to be arrested.”
“Did you catch him?”
“Eventually.” He buttered bread with careful precision. “After he stabbed me and ran. I chased him for six blocks before Finn tackled him.”
“You chased himafterbeing stabbed?”
“It was just a scratch.” But the way he said it—dismissive, like getting stabbed was no big deal—told Nora everything about how Carson Black operated.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t give up. Not even when he was bleeding.
