“I can run a remote diagnostic. If the data’s recoverable, it could take twenty-four to forty-eight—”
“Twelve hours, max.”
A pause. “Sir, if the corruption is significant—”
“Twelve hours.” I end the call.
I stare at the stuttering frames on the screen. The static holds for a moment and then clears, the hallway resolving intosharp focus on either side of the gap—before and after, clean as a cut.
Someone was in this building earlier tonight. They knew where the cameras were, knew the window they needed, and knew how to corrupt the footage from inside the system without triggering a flagged breach. This wasn’t opportunistic. It was careful.
And while they were being careful, Lauren and Hannah and I were all in our beds.
Blyad!
My hand finds the gun on the desk.
Whatever Aslanov’s planning, it isn’t coming.
It’s already here.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lauren
The smell of coffee reaches me before I’m fully down the stairs.
Claire is at the counter, pouring into three mugs, still in her coat. I check the clock on the microwave. Not yet eight. In the days we’ve been here, I’ve never seen her in the kitchen before ten.
“Morning,” I say.
She turns and smiles. “Good morning. I thought I’d get a head start.” She holds out a mug.
Hannah is already at the table, feet swinging, coloring book open, entirely uninterested in the adult world around her.
I take the mug—and notice Claire’s hand. A fine tremor, there and gone. She releases the mug quickly, like she’s grateful to be rid of it.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Of course.” The smile holds. “Just a little cold this morning.”
I bring the mug to my lips.
The sweetness hits before the coffee does—thick and cloying, the kind of over-sugared drink you’d find at the bottom of a gas station menu. I manage not to choke, but only barely. I set it down.
“I’m so sorry.” I push it slightly away. “I should have said—I don’t take sugar.”
Something crosses Claire’s face. Fast, involuntary—her eyes widening before the smile locks back into place. “Oh, goodness. Of course. Silly of me. I make mine the same way—Ijust didn’t think.” She laughs softly and takes the mug from me, moving to the sink.
I watch her back for a moment, then turn to Hannah. She hasn’t looked up once, absorbed in the careful business of selecting the right shade of yellow.
I move to the stove and start on French toast, shaking the unease loose. Claire is off this morning. That’s all. People have off mornings.
A shiver moves through me despite the warmth coming off the stove. I press closer to the heat and ignore it.
“You look cold,” Claire says from behind me. “Want me to grab that navy sweater? I think you left it on the chair in your room. I noticed it yesterday when I was passing.”
I keep my eyes on the pan.
