Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brie
Three sharp knocks—too loud, too urgent for a neighbor. The sound splits the stillness, vibrating through the floorboards before my pulse can catch up. I recognize the measured, precise pattern before I hear his voice.
“Brie!” Adrien’s voice carries desperation I’ve never heard before. I yank the door open.
“I have neighbors—”
He grips my shoulders before I can finish, eyes wild as they scan my face like he’s checking for injuries. His hands are warm, almost shaking, the controlled businessman stripped down to raw instinct.
You’d think he’d shrink back from my annoyed glare but instead his hands tighten, anchoring me as he stares like he’s debating if I’m a hallucination.
Our eyes lock in silent confrontation, a battle of wills, but then he gives me a slight shake.
“You didn’t call. Nothing. I heard nothing all day.
And then this?” His breath hits my cheek—coffee, rain, something distinctly him—and the contact blurs irritation into ache.
“What did Hudson tell you?”
I shrug out of his grip and reach past him to shut the door.
“Only that someone broke into your place. And left photographs.”
I step past him, heading down the hall.
“Why are you wearing gloves?”
Latex bites tight around my wrists, thin cover between me and the mess someone left behind.
“Dusting for prints. Though whoever did this was probably smart enough to wear gloves too.” I gesture to my supplies spread across the coffee table.
“Noah dropped off the kit.” I reach into my black duffel and pull out a pair of blue latex gloves for Adrien. “Here, until I’m finished, wear these.”
“Where are your colleagues?” He’s scanning the space like he expects multitudes of people to exit from the crevices.
“It was only Noah. He went back down.”
“Down where?”
“Your office and the club.”
“Why?”
“Information.” It should be clear.
He reaches for one of the photographs, and I slap at his arm. “Gloves first. Here, look at those.” I direct him to the photographs I’ve already dusted, but with no luck.
The photograph he picks up is one that was taken of the two of us outside my apartment building on the day I let him walk me home.
He studies the image—the two of us caught mid-conversation, my hand briefly touching his arm as we talked. Seeing us on glossy paper feels indecent, like someone photographed a confession neither of us has voiced. The angle suggests someone across the street, probably using a telephoto lens.
“They’ve been watching us for days,” he says grimly.
“At least. And this one—” I point to another photo showing him entering his office building “—could have been taken any morning. They’re establishing a pattern, showing us they know our routines.”
There are two troubling aspects to these photographs. First, I should’ve been aware of surveillance. Second, that means someone has been aware of us since the beginning of the assignment.
“Based on these photographs, someone clued in to us investigating as far back as the day when we came to your offices, which means Eddie likely knows we found the server room.”
“Are you looking for Eddie’s prints?”
“No. Eddie didn’t leave these—timing doesn’t work. We lost him at Penn Station, and he didn’t have a bag large enough for photographs this size without bending them.”
Adrien nods slowly. “Hudson gave me the greenlight to fire him. If he’s aware we’re onto him, this changes things.”
“Maybe. But someone is paying him for information. And someone definitely knows about us.”
I blow the dust I’ve layered on the print, scanning for uneven texture.
“Do you think Eddie knows someone broke into your home?”
I consider what he’s saying. “I’d expect he’s fully aware a team is investigating him. Now, whether he’s aware someone texted me to stop and left this little gift, it’s conceivable the people who hired him are the ones wanting us to stop.”
“The woman Eddie met at the waterfront—could she have done this?”
“That woman works for Moira Kelly. Catriona Murphy. I doubt she’d be sent for this kind of project. She’s more of the courier sort.”
“Moira Kelly. Magpie?”
“Rumors have abounded about Magpie for as long as I can remember. Magpie trades in secrets the way others trade in stocks.”
What we’re doing—what we’re risking—isn’t on that level. It can’t be. “It’s likely they know very little about us—our group is new. Maybe she’s hoping this will scare us, but I’d bet she’s more interested in how we react and who we contact.”
“Then what has she learned?”
“We didn’t call the cops or the FBI. So she’s probably assuming we’re not the feds.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“From Magpie’s perspective? I’m not sure.”
I move to the last photograph. It’s one of me in the back of a car service.
It could have been taken any time or anywhere, and I don’t hate it as much as the other photos because it’d be next to impossible to notice someone snapping a photo from a building or storefront when speeding past. The grain pattern suggests 400 ISO film—deliberate.
Harder to trace. Probably shot from 200 meters with a 600mm lens.
There’s also a photograph of Adrien crossing the street into his office from The Sanctuary.
I’m not shown in the photo, but again, it’s impossible to know the date.
The shadows indicate mid-afternoon, between two and four p.m. based on the building angles.
A thought occurs to me. “Did you get a text?”
“From who?”
“An unknown number? Anything threatening? Demanding?”
“No. Nothing like what the senator has been getting.”
I pause, looking up from the last photograph. “What’d he get?”
“A second delivery. A threat.” He zeroes in on the photos. “Sent to his office, not his home.”
“Right. KOAN has security set up at his home.”
“What did your threat say?” The timbre of his voice roughens, low and dangerous. At the moment, he’s all angry protector with no sign of the aloof businessman.
“Just one word,” I say, spreading the dust over the photograph. “Stop. Not exactly threatening, but the timing was suspicious—came right before I found the break-in.”
The ninhydrin powder catches nothing—no ridge patterns, no partial prints. Professional work.
He picks up his phone and dials, holding it out, leaving it on speaker.
“Mr. d’Avricourt’s office.”
“Tally, it’s me.”
“Oh, hi. I didn’t look at the number.”
Annoyance flashes across his features, and I bite back an amused smile. “Have you noticed any unknown number texts coming through?”
That’s an odd question.
He holds a finger up, gesturing for me to hold my questions.
“Unknown numbers are automatically forwarded to you for review. Have you seen anything odd today?”
“Oh, ah. Let me check. I usually check the spam folder in the morning. I don’t see anything… Just the normal phishing.”
“Do you see anything with a single word?” I ask, given she probably would look right over a single word text, interpreting it as a half-hearted scam.
“Oh. Yes. There’s one. It just says, ‘stop.’ Do you want me to respond?”
“No,” he’s quick to say, but then he looks to me. “Do you need her to do anything with it?”
“Is it on your phone?”
“It’s on the messaging app in the spam folder, is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Tally answers cheerily.
“I’ve got it,” he says to me. “Thanks. Have you seen Eddie?”
“No, sir. Do you want me to tell him you’re looking for him?”
“No. Thanks.”
The call ends and Adrien leans against the back of the sofa.
“How should I do this? Fire Eddie? You said you believe someone in security has to be in on it too?”
“Possibly others.” With a careful view over the photograph, I drop it and move to the windowsill in the kitchen. Chances are the intruder wore gloves. I’m not going to find anything.
“So what would you have me do?”
“KOAN’s still monitoring calls. You can fire him. Block his access. Watch to see who acts. If you want to bring charges—”
“No. I can’t involve the police. I’ll call him into a meeting tomorrow morning. Have HR present to revoke his credentials, after I confront him.”
“We can take care of dismantling the servers. Ensure you have a closed loop environment.” I’m standing at the windowsill, when I consider our plans. “Are you sure you want to have the meeting tomorrow and not tonight?”
He doesn’t say anything at all, and when I look away from the windowsill, I find him studying me with an unsettling intensity.
“What?”
“The idea of something happening to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I stop myself from answering with the standard because response my father used to give me as a child when I worried when he deployed. I suspect that’s the same response he gave my mom all those years when she was basically raising my brothers and me as a single mother.
“It’s not warfare.”
His eyes narrow, and if it’s from lack of understanding or if he’s trying to call me out, I’m not sure.
“I don’t like this.”
“This? You mean, the investigation?”
“Someone broke into your home, Brie. And they’re clearly trying to show you that they are watching. They have access.”
I step up to him, wanting to soothe his worry. It’s not needed. “Think about it. Even with the senator, they aren’t threatening bodily harm.”
“Brie, you don’t know what these people will do.
They have something to hold over the senator’s head.
They don’t need to threaten his life. Are they going to find something to hold over your head?
Because I can tell you, the only thing they’d find to hold over me is either you, my sister, or my parents.
Maybe Tommy. People, Brie. That’s all they have on me that I could possibly care about given what I do and who I am.
What about you? You’re not close to your family—anyone observing you or looking into your travel patterns can confirm that—I’d bet your communications, email, and phone confirm that.
You’re a former intelligence officer. If they don’t have a person to hold over your head, what do they do? ”
“I’m a spoke in a wheel. Going after me doesn’t make sense. By now, they’ve figured out I’m a part of a team. They aren’t going to come for me.”
His arms are folded over his chest in classic defensive posture, and I clasp his wrists. “I’m safe. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, jaw working as he processes everything.
When he looks up, his expression has shifted from worried to determined.
“Get your things. Come to my place—tonight. Until this is settled.” It’s command layered over fear, and for a heartbeat I glimpse the man who never learned to ask when it comes to protecting someone he loves.
“Adrien.”
“No. They’ve proven they can get into your building. Hudson told me that they may not have finished the message. You may have interrupted them. I live in a secure, doorman building with a private elevator.”
“Adrien, you realize that I’m qualified to provide security services, right? I’m skilled and capable.”
“I don’t doubt your skills.” I cock an eyebrow, calling him out on that one. “I don’t. You’re one of the most intelligent and accomplished women I’ve ever met. But even skilled individuals need to sleep.”
“I don’t recall getting a lot of sleep last night.”
“Brie, I’m serious. I won’t sleep unless you’re safe.”
That’s a more difficult angle to fight, and while I always thought I’d be furious if a man tried to tell me to not take risks, that’s not exactly what he’s saying.
And if I’m honest, it feels good to have someone who cares.
The most I’ve ever gotten from my parents or brothers is the standard Anderson family send-off: “Be smart.”
“Alright. Let me shower—”
“I’ll pack for you while you finish up fingerprint dusting. Then we’ll leave. You can shower at my place.”
My instinct is to bristle—to correct him, to prove I can handle this alone.
But his fear isn’t about doubting me. It’s about needing me alive.
I study him for a minute, debating. It’s not the worst idea. Safe houses save lives.
“Okay.”
I pat his wrists, and shift, mapping out the remaining areas I should dust, when he pulls me against his chest, arms wrapping around me so tightly I can barely breathe.
His body trembles, not with desire this time but with leftover terror.
The fine wool of his coat scratches my cheek, grounding me in the reality that I’m alive, that he’s here.
Against my chest, his heart hammers like he’s been running, and that’s when it really hits me—how terrified he was. Not just worried, terrified. For a man built on control, his surrender is devastating.
The way he’s holding me feels like proof—of what I mean to him, and what he means to me.
I slide my arms around his waist, holding him just as fiercely. He exhales against my hair, and the sound is half-prayer, half-promise. I don’t correct him. I don’t pull away. I let it matter.
For the first time tonight, the room feels still.
“I’m okay,” I whisper into his neck. “I’m right here.”