Chapter 9
NINE
The phone buzzed again, flashing Chase Security Relay. Official. No mistaking it. Reid swiped the screen. “Hanlon.”
A clipped operator’s voice came through, all business. “Stand by for Mr. Paulsen.” Two clicks, a thin wash of static, then silence. It was measured.
Reid’s spine went rigid before the voice even came, the old instinct slotting into place.
“Noah Paulsen.” He was calm, precise—a man who didn’t need volume to project authority.
Reid’s grip tightened on the phone. “Sir.”
“You’re part of Ann Arbor now,” Paulsen said, but this time there was a note under the steel, something almost congratulatory.
“Effective immediately, you’ve been named team lead for Tree Town One.
That makes you the point man for the primary Ann Arbor tactical unit. Congratulations, Reid. You earned it.”
Reid’s chest tightened. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your first orientation and team meeting is tonight at nineteen-hundred hours,” Paulsen continued. “Location will be pushed to your secure line. Come dressed in business attire. You’ll be issued your leadership uniforms once you’re inside.”
Reid nodded even though the man couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir.”
“And bring Miss Bowman with you,” Paulsen added, tone even but lighter now, almost casual.
“Ian and Martin Bailey would like to speak with her informally. It’s relaxed.
Nothing for her to be concerned about, but we want her in a room.
She’ll be scheduled at the same time as you. That will make things easy.”
Reid’s hand flexed against the phone. “Copy that.”
“You’ve got the day to yourself,” Paulsen finished. “Use it. And, Reid, be ready to walk in tonight as the man your team needs you to be.” The line clicked dead.
Reid lowered the phone slowly, setting it on the counter with care, though it felt heavier than it should have. Across from him, Claire stood with her mug untouched, her sharp eyes locked on his. She was reading him before he said a word.
“That wasn’t just about you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
Reid shook his head once. “They want you at nineteen-hundred. Ian and Martin Bailey want to speak with you. Noah said it’s informal. My first meeting with the team is the same time.”
Reid studied her a moment longer, then exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The morning had not fully settled yet. He could still hear Noah’s voice: Congratulations, Reid. You earned it.
And under it, quieter but sharper, was Tuck’s voice: There’s a door for you at Chase. All you have to do is walk through it.
His throat worked once. “I need to call my Uncle Tuck.”
Claire tilted her head and smiled. “To tell him?”
Reid nodded, the decision solid in his chest. “He put me on this path. He should hear it from me, not anyone else.”
Her eyes softened. “He’ll be proud.”
Reid wasn’t sure “proud” was the word Tuck would use, but he knew one thing: when his uncle picked up, he’d understand exactly what this meant. And Reid needed that steadiness in his corner before nineteen-hundred came.
Reid picked up the phone again, thumb already finding Tuck’s number. He listened to the ring… one, two, three… before the voicemail tone cut in.
He drew in a breath, then spoke low, steady. “It’s me. Just got off with Paulsen. I’ve been named team lead for Ann Arbor’s Tree Town One. Orientation’s tonight at nineteen-hundred. You told me there’d be a door. I walked through it. Guess I’m inside now. I’ll catch you when I can.”
He ended the call before the words could sit too long. Tuck would understand the shorthand. He always did.
“They gave us the day,” Reid said to Claire. “It’s ours. No check-ins, no tail. Just time.”
Her brows lifted faintly, as if testing whether he believed it himself.
“Somewhere along the way,” he added, “I need to swing by my place. Paulsen made that clear. I’ll need business attire for tonight.”
Claire’s mouth curved in the faintest line, not quite a smile. “A suit, then.”
“Something close,” Reid said, a ghost of dry humor threading through. “Apparently uniforms get issued tonight. Guess I’ll find out what a Chase team lead looks like.”
Her expression shifted again, something softer breaking through the calculation. “You already look like one.”
For a beat, neither of them moved. The morning hung there, heavy, undeniable, but so did the quiet truth of the day stretching ahead of them, unclaimed.
Reid finally reached for his coffee. “Then let’s make the most of it.”
TREETOWN DINER – 0800 HOURS
They ate at a corner diner two blocks from her place, where the air always smelled like butter and burnt coffee. Reid stuck to eggs and toast. Claire tore through a stack of pancakes like she hadn’t eaten in days.
She was quieter than last night, like saying I’m not okay had let the pressure out just enough. When the plates were cleared, she stirred her coffee, eyes on the swirl. “So, what’s your apartment like?”
Reid leaned back. “Bare-bones.”
She gave him a look. “That’s not an answer.”
He exhaled. “Chase-issued. One bedroom. Sparse kitchen. Couch, chair, counter with stools. Desk, filing cabinet, safe. That’s it.”
“No table? No rugs? No anything?”
“It’s efficient.”
Claire set down her cup. “You can’t lead a team out of a storage unit.”
Reid raised a brow. “And?”
“We’re going shopping.”
He blinked. “Shopping?”
“Shopping,” she said firmly. “You need furniture. A presence. Something that says command, not surveillance van.”
A beat. Then a dry smile. “You’re volunteering?”
Her eyes glinted. “I don’t volunteer. I decide.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down, and the sharpness in her expression flickered the second she saw the name: Heather Bowman.
Claire’s posture shifted instantly. Her shoulders caved in, and her chin grew tight. She silenced the buzz with her thumb, but the phone lit up again immediately. Her jaw set, the faintest tremor of tension running through her.
“You gonna answer that?”
She gave one sharp exhale. “If I don’t, she’ll keep calling.” Her hand closed around the phone, knuckles white as she pressed it to her ear. “Mother.” The single word carried every ounce of steel she hadn’t shown since the gala.
Heather Bowman’s voice came sharp and cold, her tone meant to cut through marble walls and Claire.
“You will be at the museum Tuesday night. The University of Michigan expects its faculty to support these events, and, as a professor, you will be there. I’m including it as part of my campaign.
After what you pulled at the gala, it’s the least you can do. ”
The words stung, but not from surprise. They always landed the same way, as if no matter what Claire did, she was already on trial.
Her jaw locked, and she forced her voice even. “I’m already planning to attend. My department has an exhibit as part of the opening.”
Heather’s tone softened in volume but not in edge. “Good. Do not embarrass me again. This is about image, Claire. If you can’t manage that, just stay quiet and stand beside me where you belong. I will send you instructions on hair and dress.”
“Mother, I’ve been dressing on my own since I was five.”
The word “belong” pressed like a hand on the back of her neck. Claire stared at the far wall, spine rigid, refusing to give in to the familiar ache in her chest. Silence stretched, and just as she expected, her mother filled it with a sharp, impatient sigh.
Finally, Claire’s voice came out flat, steady only because she refused to let it crack. “I’ll be there Tuesday.”
“See that you are.” The line went dead with a sharp click.
For a moment, Claire just held the phone against her ear, the plastic hot from her grip, before lowering it and setting it face down on the table like it had burned her. Her breath slid out slow, controlled, though her pulse still beat hard at the base of her throat.
Across from her, Reid was watching. Steady, as always. She could feel his gaze settle into her skin.
“She’s holding a campaign stop at the UMich museum.” Claire’s voice was thinner than she wanted. “Tuesday night. She wants me there.”
Reid didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “And you agreed.”
A grimace tugged her mouth, though the corner almost twisted into a smile at the absurdity of it. “Because I was already going. My department’s exhibit opens that night. It’s my job, not her command.” She shook her head once. “She doesn’t get the difference.”
His gaze stayed locked on hers, steady as an anchor in heavy seas. “But you do.”
The pain in her chest softened at that, and she gave a short nod. Her shoulders loosened, just enough to breathe.
CHASE EMPLOYEE APARTMENTS – 0901 HOURS
The lobby smelled faintly of stone polish and fresh paint—new, precise, unmistakably Chase. Brass-edged sign-in desk, discreet cameras, a security officer with perfect posture.
Reid pressed his palm to the console. His ID chip blinked green. “Guest with me.”
The officer’s gaze shifted to Claire. “Photo ID?”
She handed over her license. A chime sounded. “Signed and logged, Miss Bowman. You’re clear.”
Reid nodded and motioned to the elevators. “Come on.”
The ride to the ninth floor was silent. Claire’s reflection hovered beside his in the steel walls—damp ponytail, soft tee, jeans. His jacket still around her shoulders. Reid hadn’t questioned it when they left.
Reid stood beside her, tux shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tie hanging loose. Calm. Unreadable. But she’d seen the scuffed shoes, the bruises he hadn’t mentioned.
The elevator opened to a quiet hall. Four doors. He keyed into the third.
The apartment matched his description: pale walls, minimal furniture, spotless kitchen. Living room, office, bedroom—nothing personal, nothing out of place.
Claire stepped in, eyes scanning. “Bare-bones,” she murmured.
Reid hung his keys. “Provided by Chase. What you see is what you get.”
She gave him a look. “It’s not bare-bones. It’s emotionally repressed architecture.”
He smirked. “Efficient.”
She laughed, tension slipping from her shoulders. “You mean soulless.”
He didn’t argue. He slid his jacket off her shoulders and disappeared down the hall.
When he came back, he’d traded the tux for jeans and a navy t-shirt. Damp hair pushed back, boots half-laced. He looked normal. Human.
Claire smiled. “That’s better. You looked like you were about to sell me a high-yield bond.”
Reid’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You let me into your lair, Hanlon. That’s leverage.”
He stepped closer, gaze steady. “Anchor doesn’t give up leverage.”
She tasted the word. “Anchor. It fits.”
The look they shared was quiet, amused. It was something easy growing between them, neither sharp nor fragile. Not yet.
Target. Then furniture. Then housewares. Reid hadn’t set foot in this many stores since he was ten, trailing behind Tuck on grocery runs. Even then, they never lingered.
Claire lingered with purpose. She moved through aisles like she was casing the place, fingers brushing shelves, eyes scanning every label. Not slow, just… methodical. Like she was taming the chaos.
Reid pushed the cart. He hadn’t planned to, but she’d raised one eyebrow at it sitting idle, and somehow his hands ended up on the handle.
“You have four plates,” she said flatly, holding up a boxed set. “That’s not minimalist. That’s a cry for help.”
“They were issued,” he replied.
“They were beige sadness,” she countered, dropping the set into the cart. “This is your intervention.”
Reid said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched—barely.
Later, in front of throw blankets, Claire draped one over her shoulders like a cape and stared him down. “This doesn’t scream ‘operator.’ It whispers ‘person with a couch.’”
He arched a brow. “Operators don’t need blankets.”
“You do. You get cold.”
Reid didn’t answer. But the way she said it—casual, certain—lodged somewhere under his ribs.
By checkout, the cart looked like a soft goods armory: pillows, cutlery, a rug, a coffee press she insisted on, and a random potted plant she dropped in like a grenade.
Reid stared at it. “That’s alive.”
“It is,” Claire said sweetly. “So you’ll have company.”
Back at the apartment, they hauled everything up, laughing more than they should’ve. The rug got jammed in the elevator, Claire nearly lost a pillow in the hall, and Reid caught himself grinning at the absurdity of it all.
Bags spilled into the bare living room. Claire dropped to the floor with takeout, cross-legged on the new rug. Reid insisted on rearranging the couch first—“functional first”—but gave in when she shot him that look.
They ate off their laps. She stole a shrimp from his stir fry without warning.
“That was mine,” he said flatly.
“Not anymore,” she replied, smug as hell.
Later, he tried to line up the throw pillows with military precision. She lobbed one at his head.
“You’re impossible,” she laughed, breathless.
“You bought them.”
The apartment looked different already—less bunker, more lived-in. The plant sat on the sill like it belonged, though Reid muttered about “liability for neglect,” which nearly made her choke on her drink.
As the sky dimmed gold into gray, dessert cartons emptied and laughter faded. Claire drew her knees up, arms wrapped around them.
“It feels like the world’s going to knock any second,” she murmured.
Reid glanced at her, calm. “Not tonight. We walk in on our own terms.”
She nodded, but the worry crept in anyway. All this—this warmth—felt too temporary. Too easy to break.
By 17:42, it was time.
She stood and brushed crumbs from her jeans. Reid vacuumed the floor, already shifting back into precision. He pulled his suit from the garment bag. The room stilled.
Claire ducked into the bedroom. Her black dress was simple, professional—armor, really. She redid her makeup, hands trembling just enough to notice. Outside, the shower ran briefly, then stopped.
When Reid emerged, the change was stark. Suit sharp, posture tighter. Authority back in place.
“You clean up fast,” she said, voice thinner than before.
“Hazard of the job.”
She turned, adjusted her dress, and slipped on her low heels. His gaze passed over her once—measured, not lingering—but it left her skin prickling.
“You’re ready,” he said.
“So are you.”
He checked the secure feed. “We leave at 18:30. Walk.”
Claire gave a quiet laugh. “Around the corner.”
“Exactly.” He shrugged his tux jacket over her shoulders again—no ceremony, just habit now.
She watched him for a moment longer, then squared her shoulders with a deep breath. The warmth of the day, the laughter and the ease, pressed into the edges of her chest like something she needed to carry with her because, when they stepped out that door, it was gone.