Page 131 of Reckless

She points a finger at me. ‘Promise.’

“I promise.”

I watch until her taillights disappear from the street below.

Only then do I lock the door.

Ghost texts while I’m halfway through highlighting the third page of the complaint.

Toothpick: Church running late. You okay?

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

Me: I’m okay. Behave yourself.

His reply arrives before I’ve even set my phone back down.

Toothpick: No promises.

I shake my head, smiling into my wine. “Dork,” I mutter to the empty apartment, and the smile fades almost as quickly as it came. The file waits patiently on the coffee table. So do the lies inside it.

Hours disappear without me noticing, and one page becomes five. Five become twelve.

The wine bottle grows steadily lighter while my notebook fills with circles, arrows, and half-finished theories that all seem to end in the same impossible conclusion.

Calloway hasn’t accused us because he thinks we’ll lose.

He’s accused us because he knows proving we’re innocent takes time.

And time is all he needs.

I scrub a hand over my face and lean back from the dining table, my neck protesting after hours bent over notes and spreadsheets. When I glance toward the window, the glass has turned into a mirror, my own exhausted reflection staring back at me against the darkness outside.

How long have I been sitting here?

The microwave answers before I can. 11:57 p.m.

Almost midnight.

The apartment has settled into that strange stillness that only seems to exist this late at night. I’ve lived here long enough that most of the building’s noises stopped meaning anything months ago. The pipes complain, the old timber shifts, somebody out on the street slams a car door harder than they need to, and it is all part of living here.

The creak outside isn’t.

My pen stills against the page before I even realize I’ve stopped writing.

I hold my breath.

Nothing.

For a second, I almost laugh at myself. It’s an old building, and old buildings make noise. Ghost would probably tell me I’m catastrophizing.

Then the metal staircase groans again.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

The sound crawls straight down my spine, every instinct I have latching onto it before my brain catches up. Somebody is putting their weight on those stairs one careful step at a time, moving slowly enough that it feels deliberate.