“She looked into our room. She had no reason to be in that corridor—but she referenced the navy sweater on the chair, which means she was close enough to see it. And then she made a comment about you sleeping in the master bedroom.” Lauren pauses, choosing her words. “Like she knew about our sleeping arrangements.”
I say nothing. I’m listening the way I was trained to listen—not only for what’s being said, but for the shape underneath it.
“And then there’s Hannah.” She meets my eyes. “Claire has been asking her questions. Where she goes to school. Whether she likes you.”
The school question. I turn it over slowly. Hannah’s school is in Atlanta. We are in Chicago. There is no innocent reason for that question—no mutual connection, no casual curiosity that accounts for it. A tutor asks about letters and numbers and colors. She doesn’t ask a child what state she attends school in.
“Was there anything else?”
“When I corrected her about the bedroom, she walked it back immediately. Said she’d just assumed, since we were living together.” Lauren shakes her head and pulls her knees up to her chest, her voice quieter now. “The whole morning felt wrong. She was here early—earlier than she’s ever been. Her hands were shaking when she handed me the coffee. And the coffee itself—” A short, humorless breath. “She loaded it with sugar. Enough that I had to spit it out.”
I stand. Move to the desk without quite deciding to. My hand finds the back of the chair and I grip it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.” She holds my gaze, steady. “You were otherwise engaged.”
She’s right. I don’t push it.
I stand there and let the pieces arrange themselves. Claire, early and trembling, asking questions through a child about a man she has no reason to be curious about. Claire, who knows the layout of this penthouse better than anyone. Claire, who has been alone in every room of this apartment at one point or another over the past two weeks.
Pizdets.
My mind goes to the security footage. The gap in the hallway cam. The specific, surgical window of corrupted footage—not a power failure, not a technical error. The IT technician’s voice, careful and neutral:the corruption originated inside the system.
Not an external breach.
Inside.
The pieces don’t just connect. They lock into place with the particular, sickening precision of something that was always true, that I should have seen sooner.
Blyad.
I press two fingers to my temple and breathe through it. Lauren is watching me from the couch, reading my face the way she’s learned to read it—carefully, quickly, filling in what I’m not saying. Her expression shifts.
“Niko?” she says.
“Where is Claire now?”
Lauren shakes her head. “It’s her day off. Though I saw her briefly through the window earlier—just passing by outside.” She pauses. “I didn’t think much of it.”
“Hannah. Is she still sleeping?”
“She should be. She’ll be waking up soon—"
“She needs to wake up now.”
I’m already moving, pulling on clothes, the pieces assembling themselves into something I don’t want to look at directly. Elias’ voice in my ear:a perfect way to lure you out.Not a location. Not money.
A person.
Claire, who has had two weeks of unrestricted access to every room in this penthouse. Claire, whose background check came back clean—which means nothing, because Aslanov has always been meticulous about his people.
The corrupted footage.
Inside the system.
I barrel out of the office. Lauren is right behind me, still pulling her shirt on.
