"I was working." He sets the tablet down and stands, moving toward the kitchen. "There's coffee."
I follow him, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders because I'm not ready to give up the warmth. The kitchen is bright, cleaner than it was last night. Jagger pours a second cup and slides it across the counter without looking at me.
"You found something," I say. Not a question. I can tell by the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap against the counter.
"Maybe."
"That's not a maybe posture. That's a definitely posture." I take a sip of coffee. Black, no sugar, the way he makes it. I've stopped complaining. "Spill."
He pulls up something on his tablet and turns it to face me. A photograph, grainy and pixelated, showing a building I don't recognize. Modern architecture, lots of glass, surrounded by mountains.
"This was in a subfolder labeled 'Phase Two Candidates.' It's a fertility clinic outside Geneva. Officially, it provides IVF services for wealthy European clients. Unofficially—"
"It's connected to Kreiss."
"Three wire transfers in the past eighteen months. All routed through the same shell companies we flagged yesterday."
I stare at the image. Something tugs at the back of my skull, a sensation I've learned to recognize over the past week. Memory trying to surface.
"I've seen this place," I say.
Jagger goes still. "What?"
"Not in person. In files. Photographs." I press my palm against my forehead, chasing the fragment. "There was a folder. Physical, not digital. Someone showed it to me. Brown envelope, coffee stain on the corner. The photographs were surveillance shots. This building, a few others."
"Who showed you?"
"I don't know. I can't see the face." The memory slips away like water through fingers. I want to punch something. "Fuck. It was right there."
"Don't force it." Jagger's voice is softer than I expect. "The more you push, the more it retreats. Give it time."
"Easy for you to say. Your brain wasn't scrambled by psychopaths."
He doesn't respond to that. What is there to say? He was one of those psychopaths. We both know it. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us is ready to address.
"There's more," he says finally. He swipes to another image. "This is a staff roster from 2019. Most of the names are redacted, but I found one that wasn't."
I look at the document. One name is circled in red: Dr. Elena Andros.
"Who is she?"
"Reproductive endocrinologist. Specialized in genetic screening and embryo selection. She worked for Westpoint Academy for six years before the fire."
The name hits me like a fist to the gut.
I'm not in the kitchen anymore. I'm somewhere else, somewhere cold, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A woman in a white coat, dark hair pulled back, asking questions I can't hear. Charts on the wall behind her. Photographs of children.
"Jonah."
Hands on my shoulders. Jagger's face, close to mine, gray eyes sharp with concern.
"I'm here," I manage. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're hyperventilating."
He's right. My chest is heaving, lungs burning, the kitchen spinning around me. I focus on his hands, the pressure of his grip, the warmth bleeding through my shirt.
"Breathe," he says. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four."
