49. Maeve
Maeve
The apartment is quiet. Not the heavy silence that lived inside Ronan's house, where every sound felt like a warning and every quiet moment meant I should be listening for footsteps.
This silence feels...safe.
The television murmurs softly from somewhere behind me, though I couldn't tell anyone what we're watching. Keaton had put on some documentary about abandoned Cold War bunkers nearly two hours ago, and neither of us has paid much attention to it since.
Instead, we've simply...existed.
I'd spent the first hour curled into one end of the couch with the blanket he'd pulled from the hall closet while Keaton sat at the opposite end with his laptop balanced across his knees.
Every so often I'd glance over to find lines of code reflecting in his glasses before he'd quietly close the screen and ask if I wanted to watch something else.
I never did.
Somewhere around six o'clock he'd looked into the kitchen, frowned almost imperceptibly, and announced, "I need groceries."
I smiled. It was the second time he'd said it since we'd left my parents' house.
In the end he'd ordered enough takeout to feed six people, despite the fact there were only two of us. Then he pulled out his phone.
"I had Bullet stop somewhere."
"To buy groceries?"
"No."
He'd looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "He's terrible at grocery shopping."
"So...?"
"I asked him to buy you a Kindle."
I blink. "A Kindle?"
"You mentioned yesterday you hadn't been able to finish the book you were reading."
"I..." I couldn't remember saying that. He could.
"It's arriving in approximately twenty-two minutes."
It had arrived in nineteen.
Bullet knocked twice, handed Keaton the small box, muttered something about 'domestic errands not being in my job description,' and disappeared before I'd even reached the front door.
"Rachel wanted to bring it herself."
I glance over at him. "Really?"
He nods without looking away from his laptop. "She also wanted to check on you."
"So why didn't she?"
"The probability of Rachel remaining for several hours was approximately one hundred percent." That sounds about right. "Bullet was the only one likely to leave immediately."
I laugh quietly.
"So you sent Bullet."
"It was the most efficient solution."
Of course it was.
The television continues talking about reinforced concrete and Soviet engineering while I settle deeper beneath the blanket, my new Kindle resting forgotten beside me.
My eyes wander around the apartment instead. The bookshelves. The kitchen. The hallway.
Then...I notice it.
The small security camera mounted above the front door. A smile finds me before I can stop it.
Earlier, after catching me staring at it for far too long, Keaton had silently opened his laptop and turned it toward me.
"I thought you might want to see."
Four camera feeds filled the screen. The front door. The hallway outside the apartment. The elevator. The parking lot outside the building.
"That's all?" I'd asked.
He'd nodded. "It's a closed system."
I frowned. "You could've just hacked into the building's cameras."
"I could."
He'd said it as casually as someone commenting on the weather.
"So why didn't you?"
He'd looked almost offended by the suggestion. "Because if I can access it..."
Understanding had settled over me before he'd finished. "...someone else can too."
He'd nodded once. "I prefer stable systems."
Then he'd quietly closed the laptop again as if he'd merely been explaining how the coffee maker worked.
I look back toward the camera now.
It's strange. A week ago, the idea of a camera watching me would've made my chest tighten.
Now...I know exactly where this one points. Exactly who has access to it. Exactly why it's there.
For the first time in months... Being watched doesn't feel like losing my freedom.
It feels like someone making sure I make it home.