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I can’t even bring myself to question how she knows my real name. Not when the way she says it makes me want to hear it again—louder, breathless, and entirely because of me.

In the world of my podcast, I’m a brand, a voice, a carefully curated set of initials.

But she says Baryn with a familiar authority that suggests she dismantled my digital footprint long before this moment.

The thought should probably alarm me. Instead, a strange hum of interest settles in my chest.

If she’s been looking into me—spending her late-night hours deep-diving into my history and stalking my records—I find I don't actually mind the intrusion.

In fact, the idea of her obsessing over my private information actually does unspeakable things to my insides.

I’ll figure out exactly how much she knows later. For now, I just obey.

“The ASTM standards for medical-grade implants are absolute.” Her words hit the air in a rapid-fire stream I can’t keep up with. “Cobalt-chromium-molybdenum alloys. Not just for durability, but traceability. Implant manufacturers maintain production records tied to identifying marks, lot numbers, and manufacturing batches. If there’s enough left on the component to identify the manufacturer and model, we can work backward through their records. Then surgical records.”

I interview people for a living. My career is based on finding the weak spot in difficult subjects but right now, I’m just a spectator. I can’t find a pause in the noise to interrupt her and ask her what the fuck she is talking about.

“The plastic spacer has a different lot number than the metal femoral component,” she continues. Her hands are shaking as she gestures at the air, tracing invisible lines of data only she can see. “Even if the hospital purged the records, the manufacturer can tell us when the components were made and where that lot was distributed. That gives us hospitals. Hospitals give us surgical records. It’s a chain.”

She’s emanating a volatile energy that feels like it’s about to blow the fuses in the room.

I step directly into her path and catch her by the upper arms.

Her skin is hot and grimy under my palms, a feverish contrast to the air-conditioned stillness of the room. The contact is a sudden, physical interruption to her downward spiral. Her entire body stiffens in surprise.

I tighten my hold on her, anchored and unmoving, waiting for the manic oscillation in her eyes to steady.

"Serena," I keep my voice calm. "Take a deep breath. Start from the beginning, and tell me everything like you’re explaining it to an idiot.”

Her eyes snap into focus, the unseeing, frantic look receding as she finally pulls herself back into the room. I don’t move my hands. I stay right where I am, anchoring her to the floorboards.

“You are an idiot,” she finally says. The smile that splits her dirt-speckled face is heartstopping.

My eyes narrow until they’re just two stark, unforgiving lines of disbelief.

She sighs. “Internal prosthetics are designed to be identifiable.” Her voice is level now, dropping into the clinical tone she typically uses. “Knees, hips, pacemakers—depending on the device, you’re looking for manufacturer markings, model numbers, lot numbers, sometimes individual serial numbers. Something that can be traced back through production and distribution records.” She pauses. “It’s essentially a black box for the human body. Something that can survive even when the biology doesn’t.”

She pauses to look at me, making sure I’m following now. I give her a short nod.

“The numbers are tied to the manufacturer’s production and distribution records,” she continues, reaching into the pocket of her running shorts. “I called their post-market regulatory department and gave them the serial number. Once Mara provided the case number and confirmed I’m consulting on an active unidentified-remains investigation, they traced the component to the regional medical center that received it in 2006. The hospital pulled the corresponding implant record.”

I stare down at her, patient. I still don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about and I think she realizes that.

She pulls her hand out of her pocket. She’s holding a dull, gray hunk of metal and plastic, encrusted with years of accumulated crud.

“Casey had a limb-salvage reconstruction in ninth grade—a modular endoprosthesis designed to accommodate continued growth. She shattered the distal femur and proximal tibia in a climbing accident. There was extensive bone loss around the knee, enough that conventional reconstruction wasn’t an option. The surgeons were trying to save the leg. It was this or amputation.” She holds the object out between us. “Mara had this in her glovebox. She thought it was a car part. She found it at the arrest site. The serial number is a match, Baryn. This is her. This is Casey.”

I stare at the piece of metal in her hand, my mind struggling to close the gaps between everything she’s just told me.

Before I can process the movement, she lunges forward. There is no hesitation. She just crashes into me, her arms wrapping around my waist with crushing strength for someone her size.

I stumble back half a step, my heart hammering.

Of all the things I have expected Serena to be, a hugger is not one of them.

When she leans into me, my first thought is of the mass—or the lack of it. She feels smaller than the impression she leaves on the world; a compact, wired-tight collection of bones and nerves. She settles against my frame with a seamless, unnerving accuracy, as if she were designed to occupy this specific space, every curve and hollow finding its match.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer, my chin resting on the top of her head.