8. Alex
Chapter eight
Alex
T he TV's blue shadows flickered across my living room. I muted the volume, but I couldn't ignore the scrolling headlines beneath footage of the Tahitian marina in flames.
I'd fallen asleep on the couch again, with the laptop balanced precariously on my chest like a shield. My neck ached from the awkward angle, and my mouth tasted of stale coffee.
SWAT Officer Island Killing: Investigation Continues scrolled over and over.
I pushed myself upright, scattering printouts across the floor. They joined the debris of yesterday's research—articles about Lars Reeves, corporate filings for Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies, and fragments of interviews where he'd mentioned defense contracts. I'd scattered the pieces of someone else's broken life across my coffee table, trying to make sense of the wreckage.
When I saw on the news the authorities were sending Michael back to Seattle, I cut my trip short, too. It was now three days since I'd returned to my home city—four days of silence from Michael.
Historians understand that absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence. The gaps in the historical record often reveal more than what remains—like shadows outlining a figure removed from a photograph. For four days, Michael's silence had been that kind of negative space, a void that took the precise shape of what I'd lost.
My phone sat beside an empty mug. I'd checked it thirty-seven times since yesterday. I knew this because I'd started counting, hoping the pathetic tally might shame me into stopping.
What would one more time matter? I picked it up and scrolled through my contacts. The entry on Michael had no last name, but I knew it now—McCabe—from the endless news stories. The one photo I'd taken of him accompanied the spare entry.
I scorned myself out loud. "This is ridiculous."
My email inbox overflowed with messages from colleagues—careful inquiries masquerading as concern.
Did you actually witness it, Alex?
Were you questioned by the authorities?
Have you been contacted by any journalists yet?
Each message hid voyeuristic curiosity behind a veil of academic interest. I didn't answer any of them.
What could I say? That I'd spent one night with the man at the center of an international incident? That I'd watched something vital inside him ignite when the explosion rocked the resort? That I'd known him for less than a day, yet couldn't stop thinking about him?
Every headline dripped into the hollow place Marissa once filled. It was absurd to mourn a connection that had barely formed, yet the ache was terribly familiar.
I glanced at the wall where her photo hung in a silver frame—a candid shot from our trip to Orcas Island three summers ago. She was laughing, hair windswept, and unaware of the camera. It was so spontaneous. I had to capture the moment.
"What would you make of this mess?" I addressed the question to Marissa.
There was no answer. There never was.
I closed the laptop. The research wouldn't change anything. My compulsion to understand wasn't logical. It was about maintaining a connection with Michael. It made no sense, but part of me believed if I kept on the trail of the mysterious assailant, I could somehow weave myself back into the story.
My phone buzzed with a text message. For one breathless second, I thought—
It was only my department chair. Richard: Faculty meeting moved to 3.
Reality wouldn't go away. It was indifferent to marina fires and puzzling deaths.
Students expected lectures—papers needed grading.
***
My university office had always been my sanctuary. Shelves of leather-bound journals and dog-eared paperbacks created a fortress of academia around my desk.
The radiator beneath the window hissed softly, battling the persistent Seattle chill that seeped through the single-pane glass. Outside, gray clouds hung like a theater curtain, neither opening nor closing.
I spread my lecture notes across the desk, forcing myself to focus on the Ottoman Empire and not on burning yachts. The seniors needed their final papers returned by Friday. Three graduate students waited for feedback on thesis proposals. Emails from the department committee demanded attention.
I managed twenty minutes of productive work before my fingers betrayed me. A browser tab opened with news headlines. The top one hadn't changed. Seattle SWAT Officer Returns Home After Deadly Confrontation in Tahiti
I closed the tab immediately. My phone rang—a colleague from the international studies department.
"Alex! Just the man I wanted. Heard you were in Tahiti when that defense contractor's son died. Any inside scoop? The rumors are wild."
I gripped the phone tightly. "Sorry, Gwen. I don't have anything to share."
"Come on, you must have seen something. My students are discussing it in global politics, and any firsthand context would be invaluable."
The academic disguise didn't fool me. She wanted gossip, not insight.
"I was there, yes, but anything I say could interfere with an ongoing investigation." It was an easy lie. There was no ongoing investigation, at least not publicly. According to the news reports, the Seattle PD placed Michael on administrative leave, but that was standard for any situation involving loss of life.
After Gwen hung up, I sat motionless, staring at the wall calendar. I'd scribbled in dates and deadlines for the rest of spring, but it now all appeared meaningless.
I grabbed a folder that sat at the edge of my desk. It was research notes on my military-industrial partnership lectures. I pulled it closer, flipping through printouts.
In one copy of a newspaper article, Lars Reeves appeared, accepting an award for technological innovation. His father stood beside him, hand resting possessively on his shoulder.
Before I could question my motives, I'd slid deep into the research rabbit hole. My fingers flew across the keyboard, and I pulled up records on Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies:
· Acquisitions of smaller biotech firms over the past decade
· Defense Department contracts worth billions
· Abandoned research projects with vague, unsettling descriptions
· Board member names, business partners, and subsidiaries
I thought about Michael and shook my head. You barely know him.
That wasn't entirely true. I knew the weight of Michael's body against mine and the sound of his breathing as he slept. Some forms of knowing were deeper than time could measure.
Richard knocked lightly on my open door, startling me from my research trance.
"Department meeting in thirty minutes."
"Thanks for the reminder." I shuffled papers over my notes, oddly protective of my unorthodox research project.
He lingered in the doorway. "You look distracted. Everything okay?"
"Readjusting to the rat race after my sojourn in paradise."
After he left, I stared at one name that appeared in multiple articles: Evelyn Shaw, former lead engineer at Reeves-Halvorsen who'd left the company abruptly a year ago. There was something about the timing that nagged at me, a historian's instinct for pattern recognition.
I logged on to the university's databases to search for any professional publications by Evelyn Shaw. Maybe her research would reveal something about Lars and their connection.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was I doing? Playing amateur detective when I should be focusing on Ottoman trade routes and the rise of Suleiman the Magnificent?
I readied myself to type in the search terms. The cursor moved before I touched it. Suddenly, a red warning box appeared on my computer: SUSPICIOUS LOGIN ATTEMPT DETECTED.
I frowned, and a trickle of unease wound down my spine. The warning didn't necessarily mean anything. I worked at a university, and faculty accounts were frequently subject to hacking attempts.
The warning message stayed on my screen, its red border pulsing like a digital heartbeat. I refreshed the page, hoping it was only a server hiccup. The same alert appeared, more insistent this time. SUSPICIOUS LOGIN ATTEMPT DETECTED. ACCOUNT TEMPORARILY LOCKED. PLEASE CONTACT IT SERVICES.
I told myself it was only an annoyance, nothing more. IT could fix it with a few keystrokes, but it didn't feel like nothing.
I dialed IT.
"Let me check that for you, Dr. Kessler." I heard the clicks of keys on the other end. "Hmm. Interesting. There were multiple failed login attempts from an IP address in... Virginia? Then, immediately after, someone tried from on campus. The system locked you out as a precaution."
Virginia. An innocuous detail that shouldn't have raised alarm bells, but it did. Government contractors clustered in Virginia like barnacles on a dock.
"When did the attempts start?"
"The first one was this morning at 4:17 AM. Are you an early riser, Dr. Kessler?"
I wasn't. "Can you tell me specifically what they were trying to access?"
"They attempted to log in to your faculty account. Nothing specific." He paused. "I'll reset your password and send instructions to your personal email, but you should probably change any similar passwords you use."
After hanging up, I stared at my notebook full of names connected to Lars Reeves. My historian's brain tried to rationalize the timing. It was likely random. Statistical probability favored that conclusion.
My phone buzzed with an email notification. It was the password reset from IT, nothing more.
I gathered my notes and slid them into my messenger bag, suddenly reluctant to leave anything related to Reeves or Michael in my office. The research itself was innocuous. I'd only uncovered publicly available information anyone could find, but the act of collecting it seemed a little reckless.
Through my office window, I watched students crossing the quad, laughing and gesturing. Their world continued undisturbed by explosions in paradise or mysterious login attempts. Their biggest worries were midterms and dating drama, not whether they were being digitally stalked for investigating a death they'd witnessed.
I envied their simpler concerns.
Before heading to the department meeting, I logged into my email with the new password. Everything appeared normal.
***
My office was one of three exiled to a separate building from the rest of the department. As I stepped outside to walk to the meeting, I reflected on how I'd spent eighteen months perfecting the art of appearing normal while falling apart on the inside.
After Marissa died, I'd constructed elaborate routines: my precisely timed walk to campus, mechanical grading of papers, and carefully measured conversations with colleagues who didn't know what to say.
Now, I had to conceal a new matter, this strange, inexplicable connection to a man I barely knew, whose hands I could still feel against my skin.
A student called out, "Dr. Kessler! Quick question about the midterm?"
I paused, summoning the professional mask I'd perfected. Standing beneath the sheltering branches of a maple, Hannah Watkins clutched a notebook against her chest. She'd been in my Ottoman Empire seminar since January—quiet, brilliant, always seated in the third row.
"I've been working on that comparative essay about Ottoman trade policy, and I keep hitting a wall."
"Which aspect?" I asked, trying to focus on her question rather than the headlines scrolling through my mind.
"The primary sources contradict each other. The Venetian merchant accounts claim the Ottomans imposed harsh tariffs that crippled Mediterranean trade, but Ottoman court records show relatively stable commerce." She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "It's like they're describing completely different realities."
Something in her observation cut through my distraction.
"That's exactly right. They were." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "History isn't only about what happened—it's about who gets to decide what story survives."
Her eyes widened slightly. "So you're saying truth is merely... perspective?"
"I'm saying truth is complicated. Contested. The Venetians needed to paint the Ottomans as oppressors to justify their own policies. The Ottoman court needed to project stability and prosperity." I paused, the parallel striking me. "When something happens today—something dramatic or violent—the first narrative that takes hold often becomes the accepted truth, regardless of complexities beneath the surface."
Hannah studied my face, sensing something beneath my academic response. "Like what's happening with that police officer from Seattle—the one involved in that death in Tahiti? The headlines make it sound so straightforward."
My breath caught. "That's... an apt comparison."
"My brother works in journalism. He says the first forty-eight hours of coverage almost always gets it wrong." She clutched her notebook tighter. "Sometimes I wonder if historians are only glorified fact-checkers for journalists who rushed to judgment centuries ago."
A genuine laugh escaped me. "That's the most insightful description of my profession I've heard in years."
She beamed. "So for the essay—focus on why the contradictions exist rather than trying to resolve them?"
"Yes. The question isn't which account is true. It's what those contradictions reveal about the forces shaping each narrative."
She nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Kessler. That helps more than you know."
When she left, I watched her join the stream of students crossing the quad. My phone buzzed with a reminder about the faculty meeting, but I couldn't face the performative normalcy required—nodding along to budget discussions while my mind focused on Michael and mysterious login attempts.
I pulled my keys out of my pocket before I'd made a conscious decision. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a small gravel parking lot beside a memorial garden across town. Marissa and I picnicked there once, spreading a blanket beneath a crimson Japanese maple.
I sat heavily on a wooden bench still damp from morning drizzle. The garden was empty except for a groundskeeper tending distant flowerbeds. Privacy, finally.
Loving again was like lighting a match inside a cathedral built for mourning. My thoughts were heavily dramatic and literary in a way that would have made Marissa roll her eyes. She hated melodrama, preferring straightforward truth even when it hurt.
"What would you think of him?" I whispered to the empty space beside me.
The maple leaves rustled overhead, offering no answers.
My mind drifted to a conversation we'd had three months before her accident. We'd been making dinner, chopping vegetables side by side in our tiny kitchen, when she'd broached the subject of death out of nowhere.
"If something happens to me, I don't want you to wither."
I'd laughed nervously. "Planning to leave me?"
She pointed her knife at me, suddenly serious. "I mean it, Alex. Promise me you won't build a shrine."
"That's morbid."
"It's practical." She'd resumed chopping, the knife striking the cutting board with sharp precision. "Love isn't a limited resource. It's not a betrayal to find it again."
At the time, I'd dismissed it as philosophical musing. Now, I wondered whether she'd sensed something I couldn't—a premonition.
Had she somehow known I'd end up here, torn between loyalty to her memory and the unexpected spark Michael ignited?
A drop of rain landed on my cheek and then another. I looked up to find the sky darkening.
The memorial garden emptied as people scurried for cover. I remained seated, letting the rain ground me in cold reality.
If Marissa were here, she'd tell me to stop wallowing. She'd push me toward clarity rather than comfort.
I addressed her out loud again. "I miss your pragmatism."
The rain intensified, soaking through my jacket.
It was time to leave my fantasies behind, both the dream of Marissa's approval and the hope that Michael might reappear in my life. I had courses to teach.
***
Darkness had settled over Seattle by the time I returned to my apartment. The rain had intensified from afternoon drizzle to the relentless downpour the city was infamous for—water drumming against windows, gurgling through overflowing gutters, transforming the street five floors below into a ribbon of reflected light. I flipped on the lights inside my apartment, revealing the computer printouts scattered across every flat surface.
After microwaving leftovers, I ate standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through student emails on my phone. Normal responsibilities anchored me to a world that still made sense—upcoming papers, extension requests, committee meetings. I responded methodically, grateful for the distraction.
With dinner finished, I settled at my desk with my laptop, intending to finalize my fall course schedule. The file was almost complete; I only needed a last check with the department calendar to avoid scheduling conflicts.
I entered my new password, watching the familiar login screen transform into my desktop. Nothing was amiss at first glance, but something nagged at the edge of my awareness.
I checked my login history, a habit formed when I shared computers with colleagues in grad school.
Last login: 3:47 PM.
I frowned. It was 7:30 now, and I'd left my office at 3 PM.
Last login: 3:47 PM.
The timestamp glared back at me, irrefutable. While I'd been sitting in the rain, someone had accessed my computer.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, checking for any signs of what they might have seen. My documents appeared untouched, but the thought of unknown eyes scanning my files made my skin crawl. What had they been looking for? What had they found?
Did they see the news articles about Michael? My notes on Lars Reeves? Or something more personal—fragments of my grief journey, including half-finished letters to Marissa I'd never send?
I closed the laptop slowly as if sudden movements might trigger hidden surveillance. My hand trembled slightly on the lid, a fine tremor I couldn't suppress.
I moved to the window on stiff, uncoordinated legs. Streetlights cast hazy halos through the downpour. Cars passed occasionally, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge—nothing unusual for Seattle.
As I stared into the rain, the image that rose, unbidden, wasn't my office, the campus, or even my empty apartment.
It was Michael.
For eighteen months, I felt like a ghost in my life—moving through it, checking boxes, doing what I was supposed to do. The grief had calcified, leaving behind numbness I didn't know how to shake.
Sometimes, I caught myself craving sharp edges. Not answers or peace. I wanted something to remind me I was still here. Michael did that.
I remembered how his hand had cupped the back of my neck, and I remembered the steady warmth of his body against mine in the bungalow. He grounded me in a world that, for one night, hadn't felt broken.
In the game of historical documentation, connections mean everything. But so do breaks in pattern. The login timestamp was both a connection to something larger and a disruption of my normal routine. Any proper historian would follow that thread to see where it led.
But in that moment, as memories of Michael's touch resurfaced with painful clarity, I didn't want to be a historian analyzing evidence.
I didn't want answers.
All I wanted was him.