Chapter 4
Control comes at a price, and right now, that price is restraining myself from touching Liv as we approach her building. My hand hovers near the small of her back, close enough to feel her body heat but never making contact.
Two uniformed officers lean against the entrance, their postures deliberately casual. The taller one’s gaze lingers too long on Eve, his mouth quirking into what might be amusement.
“Ms. Consoli?” The shorter officer straightens. “Detective Morris called ahead about your break-in.”
“Yes.” Eve’s voice carries none of the vulnerability I’d witnessed last night. “Shall we?”
The stairwell reeks of stale cigarettes and cheap cleaning products. Three flights up, my shoes barely make a sound against the worn steps while the officers’ boots echo behind us. Liv maintains her distance, always one step ahead, her shoulders rigid.
“Quite the security setup you’ve got here,” the taller officer comments, eyeing the reinforced door frame of her apartment.
“Fat lot of good it did.” Eve’s keys jingle as she unlocks the door.
The destruction inside hits like a physical blow.
Furniture lies scattered like battlefield casualties.
Books torn apart, their pages confetti across hardwood floors.
But it’s the walls that draw my attention—crude red letters screaming “BITCH” and “WHORE” above her couch.
“STAY OUT OF IT” stretches across her kitchen wall in dripping crimson.
I see Eve’s composure slip for just a fraction of a second. A slight tremor in her hand, a quick inhale. Then it’s gone, replaced by steel.
“Well.” The taller officer’s smirk doesn’t quite hide. “Looks like someone’s got it out for you.”
“You think?” Eve’s voice could freeze hell.
I step closer to the wall, examining the paint. “This is fresh. The edges haven’t fully dried.”
“We’ll need to document everything,” the shorter officer says, finally showing some professionalism. “Ms. Consoli, can you tell us if anything’s missing?”
“I haven’t had the chance to do a full inventory.” Liv crosses her arms. “I grabbed essentials and left when I found it like this.”
“And where exactly did you stay last night?” The taller officer’s tone carries an insinuation that makes my jaw clench.
“That’s not relevant to your investigation.” I keep my voice level, but both officers straighten at my tone.
“Mr. Harding, we need to establish—”
“You need to focus on the break-in and death threats.” I gesture to the walls. “Unless you think the victim’s choice of safe harbor is more important than finding who did this?”
Officer Jenkins flips open his notepad, pen hovering with exaggerated patience. His nameplate catches the light as he shifts his weight, positioning himself between Liv and the exit.
“Any idea why someone might want to send you a message, Ms. Consoli?” His words drip with false sympathy.
Liv meets his gaze. “I’m an investigative journalist. Take your pick.”
Morris snorts, deliberately bumping a fallen lamp with his boot. The crash of glass against hardwood sets my teeth on edge.
“Maybe something to do with that little documentary you’re working on?” Jenkins takes another step toward Eve.
I track his movement, calculating the exact distance between us. Three steps. Two, if I move quickly.
Liv doesn’t flinch. “Which one? I have several projects in development.”
Morris kicks aside a stack of papers, sending them skittering across the floor. “Oops.”
My fingers curl into my palm. The urge to grab him by the throat wars with the need to maintain control. Liv shoots me a warning glance. She doesn’t want my intervention. Not yet.
“Dangerous business.” Jenkins towers over her now, close enough that Liv has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The threat in his words hangs heavy in the air. I shift my weight, ready to move between them.
“Are you speaking from experience, Officer?” Eve’s voice carries just enough edge to make Jenkins’s jaw tighten.
The officers exchange a look that speaks volumes. Jenkins’s pen scratches against his notepad, the sound deliberate and grating. “We’ll need a detailed statement about your whereabouts last night.”
“I’ve already told you that’s not relevant to this investigation.” I keep my tone neutral, but both officers snap to attention at the steel underneath.
“Mr. Harding.” Jenkins’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you’d become Ms. Consoli’s legal counsel.”
“Just someone who knows the difference between investigation and intimidation.”
Eve’s shoulders shift—a minute adjustment most would miss. But I catch it, along with the slight tilt of her chin. Her gaze locks with mine for a fraction of a second, and the message is clear: Stand down.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. The urge to put Jenkins in his place burns through my guts, but I force myself still. Eve’s silent command holds more power than I care to admit.
“Strange coincidence,” Jenkins says, “your break-in happening right when certain people are getting nervous about your latest project.”
Eve’s arms tighten across her chest, knuckles white against her biceps. The tension radiates from her in waves, but her voice remains steady. “Is that an observation or an accusation, Officer?”
I shift my weight, calculating the exact force needed to remove Jenkins from her personal space. Eve’s eyes dart to mine again—a sharp warning. The familiar spark of defiance in her gaze stops me cold.
“Just connecting dots, Ms. Consoli.” Morris kicks another pile of papers. “Lots of people would prefer you stick to fluff pieces.”
My hands clench behind my back. Eve’s composure doesn’t crack, but I see the cost in the rigid line of her spine, the controlled rhythm of her breathing.
“If you’re done destroying evidence,” Liv says, “I’d like to file my report and leave.”
Jenkins steps closer, invading what little space remains between them. “Maybe you should consider a career change. Journalism can be… dangerous.”
Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring. But Eve’s presence anchors me in place. Her chin lifts higher, a subtle gesture of defiance that sends a familiar surge of pride—and frustration—through my chest.
“What makes you say that?” The ice in Eve’s tone could freeze hell twice over.
Jenkins’s face darkens. His hand twitches toward his belt. The movement triggers every protective instinct I possess, but Eve’s earlier warning rings in my head. She needs to handle this her way. The knowledge sits like acid in my gut.
While the officers continue their theater of intimidation, I circle the apartment’s perimeter. Each step reveals another carefully constructed detail of Eve’s existence. Or rather, her carefully constructed lack of existence.
The walls—beneath the spray-painted threats—are bare. No photos. No art. Nothing personal to anchor her here. Just blank spaces designed to leave no trace of memory behind.
In the corner, a screen, its screen a spider web of cracks. But the hard drive housing—that’s empty. Liv would never leave data behind. Smart girl. Now I need to know where she stashed it.
The kitchen tells an even starker story. One plate. One bowl. One set of utensils. The cabinets hold the bare minimum for survival, not living. No need for more when you’re always ready to run.
What should have been a dining area has been transformed into a command center.
Three monitors lie face-down, their screens shattered.
Power cables snake across the floor, connecting to a sophisticated setup that mirrors my own security system.
The sight stirs something in my chest—an echo of recognition I’d rather not examine.
A stack of notebooks catches my attention. The pages are filled with her precise handwriting, but they’re written in a code I don’t recognize. Every aspect of her life is compartmentalized and protected. The woman leaves nothing to chance.
The bedroom door hangs off its hinges. Inside, the closet contains exactly enough clothes to fill one suitcase. The bed lacks a headboard or frame—just a mattress on the floor, easy to abandon.
The bathroom cabinet stands open, revealing a single toothbrush and basic toiletries. Nothing that can’t be replaced in minutes at any drugstore. The medicine cabinet holds no prescriptions and no personal items that could be traced.
My throat tightens as each detail builds a clearer picture.
Liv hasn’t created a home here—she’s constructed an exit strategy.
Every aspect of this space is designed for quick escape, for vanishing without a trace.
The clinical efficiency of it all speaks to years of practice, of learning to live like a ghost.
The realization settles heavily in my gut. I recognize these patterns because they mirror my own paranoia and my own need for control. But where I build fortresses, Liv creates escape routes. Different approaches to the same fear.
The power play between Liv and Jenkins has gone on long enough. I step forward, my shoes crushing broken glass beneath my feet. The sound draws their attention like a gunshot.
“Officer Jenkins.” My voice cuts through the tension. “I believe we’re done here.”
He turns, mouth opening for what I’m sure will be another snide comment. I don’t give him a chance.
“Your supervisor—Captain Reynolds, isn’t it?—would be fascinated to hear how you’ve conducted this investigation.” The name drop hits its mark. Jenkins’s face pales slightly. “Particularly your creative approach to evidence collection and witness intimidation.”
Morris takes a half-step back, but Jenkins holds his ground. “Mr. Harding, we’re just doing our job—”
“Are you?” I move closer, keeping my voice low and measured.
“Because from where I stand, you’re doing everything except your job.
So here’s what’s going to happen: you’ll file your report, properly document the scene, and actually investigate this break-in.
Otherwise, your next shift might be directing traffic in the worst precinct in Chicago.
If you’re lucky enough to keep your badge at all. ”
Jenkins’s jaw works, defiance warring with self-preservation. His hand twitches toward his belt again, but he thinks better of it. Smart man.
“We’ll need your statement, Ms. Consoli,” he says finally, his earlier swagger replaced by clipped professionalism.
Liv provides her account while Morris photographs the damage, his movements now careful and methodical. Jenkins takes notes without commentary, avoiding my gaze.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the hallway. Jenkins secures the crime scene tape across Eve’s door, his movements quick and efficient. Without another word, both officers retreat down the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
“Need anything from your apartment?” I ask as we descend the stairs.
Liv shakes her head. “Everything I need is in that duffel at your place.”
The casual way she dismisses an entire apartment’s worth of possessions catches my attention. “How long have you lived there?”
“Few months.” She keeps her eyes forward as we exit the building. “Since I came back stateside.”
The morning sun catches her profile, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. Something about her answer doesn’t sit right. “That’s not much time to settle.”
“I move around. Keeping things simple works better.”
We reach my car, but I don’t unlock it yet. “Where were you before Chicago?”
“Middle East.” Her fingers drum against her thigh. “Special contract documenting women in war zones.”
The image of Liv in a war zone sends ice through my veins. “You put yourself in active danger for a story?”
“For the truth.” She meets my gaze. “Those women’s stories needed telling.”
“You could have died.” The words come out harsher than intended.
“Not until I finish what I need to do here.”
Her response stops me cold. The ambiguity in her tone, the careful choice of words—it’s impossible to tell if she’s being flippant or deadly serious. I study her face, searching for any tell, but Eve’s expression remains carefully neutral.
“Was that supposed to be reassuring?” I unlock the car, watching her slide into the passenger seat.
Liv turns to me, her green eyes sharp with challenge. “Does it really matter?”
The question hangs between us in the confined space of the car.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I process her words.
She’s right—it doesn’t matter where she’s been or what dangers she’s faced.
We’re using each other now, plain and simple.
I need her close to maintain control of whatever situation she’s stumbled into.
She needs my protection and resources until she can slip away again.
And I will only allow that when I wish to.
The reality of our arrangement has never been clearer. We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. We’re two people using each other for our own ends, and that’s the only honest thing between us.