Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Noah
The upscale apartment building has the usual amenities—parking, a pool, and a steady stream of twenty- and thirty-somethings rushing through the lobby on their way to work.
I’m here early, positioned near the entrance, hoping to catch Jeri Masters—the witness who’s stopped answering calls and opening her door. I’m not ready to call her missing. Not answering during random visits doesn’t qualify. Neither does ignoring an unknown number.
Still… it’s enough to raise a flag.
And if Alicia had hired an attorney, I’d expect them to be doing exactly what I’m doing—knocking on the witness’s door, trying to understand her version of events. More than that, trying to gauge what she actually remembers.
Because there’s something that doesn’t sit right.
To notice Alicia and the victim in a conference room with over a hundred people, Jeri would’ve had to know who she was looking at—or have a reason to pay attention. If that’s the case, how does she know them?
The apartment isn’t a doorman building, but there is a lobby with a front desk.
From what I can tell, visitors can access the elevators to the apartments from the lobby, the parking garage, or from a side door.
The person behind the front desk looks like she’s barely out of college, hair in a ponytail, wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt and a crooked name tag.
She’s busy scanning packages—which is probably a big part of her job.
On a whim, I head her way instead of toward the elevators.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks up from the package she’s holding and gives me a warm, friendly smile. “Hi. If you’re here for your package, we’re getting through them as fast as we can. The person yesterday went home sick. If you want to give me your name—”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t live here.”
“Oh.” She straightens, and glances down. My gaze follows her to a stack of boxes and envelopes. “Ah, the rental office opens at nine.”
“I’m actually looking for a Jeri Masters. She’s an old friend, and I was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh. She moved.” She looks at a bin with mail and a small cardboard box. “I only know because I’ve had to start collecting her mail to return to sender.”
“That’s harsh,” I say with a casual grin. “You don’t forward it?”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding address. We would forward it if she had. You should tell her to call with the address…” She glances back at the basket. “But honestly, it looks like mostly junk mail.”
“I could give it to her—”
“No, I can’t do that. Federal law.” She winces a little, like she wishes she could bend the rule, but not enough to risk it.
Still, she’s already given me what I came for.
Jeri Masters moved. Recently.
I tap my fingers lightly on the counter. “I’ll let her know she needs to update her address.” I pause, letting my gaze drift back to the bin. “Any chance I can take a quick look? Just so I can tell her what she’s missing.”
She hesitates, then lifts the basket and sets it in front of me.
I flip through the contents.
Her assessment matches mine—junk mail. A local coupon booklet, clothing catalog, bank logos on two return addresses, but they don’t look like bills. Then a small cardboard box catches my attention. Handwritten return address.
I pull out my phone and snap a quick photo.
The sender’s name reads Josephine Masters.
Family, most likely.
“I’ll let her know her grandmother sent something,” I say, by way of explanation.
“Yeah,” she says. “And tell her to get her mail forwarded. Otherwise, it all goes back.”
I nod, thank her, and step out into the November cold.
The air hits sharp, wind cutting between buildings. I forward the photo to Quinn, then dictate a message as I walk: “Jeri Masters moved. No forwarding address. Might be worth checking if her lease was up or if she broke it early.”
I reread it once, then send.
With one last assessing view of the apartment building, I take in the bikes on the balconies and the college flags and decide this isn’t the kind of place residents stay forever. A move doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But the timing? That’s what’s interesting.
By the time I’m back in my car, the wind’s sharp enough to whistle over the windshield. A message flashes across my phone.
Alicia: Lunch?
Me: Name the time and place.
Alicia: Montrose Café. 12:15?
Me: I’ll pick you up.
Alicia: No. I’ll meet you. I have a meeting across the street.
Me: Gabriel with you?
Alicia: Nearby. I’ll walk over when I’m done.
After checking in with Jake, Quinn, and lastly, Gabriel, I head over to the café.
Quinn confirms Jeri paid a penalty to break her lease early. Official reason: family emergency. That’s all there is on record.
How she got it—system access or charm—I don’t ask.
Either way, it adds another layer.
And none of it feels like coincidence.
Montrose is one of Alicia’s regular spots—brick front, quiet enough for real conversation, tucked just far enough off the main drag to avoid the worst of the noise. We’ve been here a few times before.
Back when things felt easier.
Before every conversation carried weight.
I park on a side street and step inside. The smell hits first—espresso, butter, the faint sweetness of cinnamon sugar.
Alicia’s already there, seated by the window. Her hair is down, her jacket draped over the back of the chair. She looks tired—but not from lack of sleep. This is the kind of tired that comes from thinking too much, carrying too much.
“Hey,” she says.
Just like that, something in my chest loosens.
“Hey yourself.” I slide into the chair across from her. “Running away from your empire?”
“Just regrouping.” She wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “You ever notice people think crisis management means I enjoy chaos?”
I grin. “Occupational hazard.”
She laughs—soft, unguarded. For a moment, the tension lifts, like she’s letting herself come up for air.
We talk about nothing for a while.
Stella’s upcoming play. Jake and Daisy looking for a new place. The heater in Alicia’s office clicking in a way that might be a problem—or might be something that’s always been there and she’s only noticing now. It’s easy.
Too easy, maybe, because I don’t notice them until Alicia’s gaze shifts past my shoulder and her smile falters.
“Noah,” she murmurs, voice flattening. “Behind you.”
I turn—and find Richard. And Jessica.
They’ve just walked in. Richard spots us immediately. The flicker in his eyes is small but unmistakable. Possession. Jealousy. Disapproval.
He recovers fast, polite smile in place as he approaches. “Alicia.”
“Richard.” Her tone is cool, neutral.
Jessica beams. “Oh! Hi, Alicia! And Noah. You helped with—” she lowers her voice like it’s a secret, “—that scare with Stella. We’re still so grateful and we never really thanked you.”
I nod once. “Just glad it worked out.”
Richard frowns. “Seems like you’re always around to help these days.”
“Part of the job,” I say easily.
“I’d think your job would involve some distance.”
Alicia’s hand curls around her cup. “Richard.”
He raises both hands slightly. “I’m just saying—it’s unusual, isn’t it? Security sticking this close?”
Jessica lets out a laugh a beat too loud, glancing around like she’s aware of the audience. “You two must be starving. We can find another table—”
“No need,” Alicia says smoothly. “We were just finishing.”
The steel in her tone is unmistakable.
I reach for the check, but Richard beats me to it, sliding his card toward the waiter as if he’s reclaiming territory. “I’ll get this.”
“Not necessary,” I tell him.
“I insist. To thank you for your service.”
It’s not about gratitude.
It’s about control.
About reminding me where I stand.
Alicia opens her mouth, then stops. The tension thickens, stretching tight between all of us.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
But her eyes are anything but grateful.
Richard nods, satisfied, and Jessica’s expression softens, as if she’s relieved the conversation survived without voices rising and heads turning.
Outside, the wind has picked up, carrying the edge of rain.
Alicia slips her arm through mine as we walk toward the corner. Her hand is steady, but I can feel the faint tremor beneath it. Adrenaline. Residual tension.
“He’s jealous,” I say.
“No. Not jealous. He’s just an asshole.”
“That too.”
She glances up at me, eyes still stormy. “You handled that well.”
“Years of practice staying calm under fire.”
“I noticed.”
We stop beside her car. The sunlight glimmers in her hair, and for a heartbeat, the world goes still again.
“I hate that he still gets to me,” she admits quietly.
“He doesn’t get to you. He just tries.”
Her lips curve faintly. “You’re good at this.”
“It’s my job,” I say. “And maybe something more.”
She exhales, the tension from the confrontation leaving her shoulders. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might believe you.”
“Good.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t look away. “Dinner with Stella and I tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
After dinner, the house feels warm again—music low, a candle burning on the kitchen island, the scent of pumpkin filling the space. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Safe.
Then my phone buzzes.
A message from KOAN flashes across the screen.
Warrant filed: Morgan, Alicia. Contact pending.
The illusion fractures.
I stare at the words a second too long before locking the screen.
Upstairs, Stella laughs at something with Alicia—unaware that everything is about to change.