Chapter 11 – Morgan #2
He was already pulling out his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been typing since before it was cool.
"The police work with whatever the building security companies give them, right?
Standard definition, compressed files, the bare minimum required by insurance and municipal regulations. "
“Right. So?”
"Most modern security systems record in high definition, they just compress everything to buggery for storage." He looked up at me, eyes bright with the kind of excitement I hadn't seen from him in weeks. "What if we could get access to the original files, yeah?"
My heart started beating faster, hope and caffeine and something that might have been an actual possibility making my pulse race. "The uncompressed footage?"
"Exactly. Full resolution, no compression artifacts, every detail the cameras actually captured.
" His grin was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
"You know, you properly insult me, Morgan.
I might not be as good as your sister at the corporate espionage stuff, but there are parts of the hacker world that call me 'The Magician. '"
I nearly choked on my hot chocolate. "Wait, seriously? That's your actual handle?"
"Focus, Morgan. Do you want to see what actually happened in that alley or not?"
More than I want my next breath.
"How long would it take?"
"Give me twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if their security's better than I reckon it is."
I watched him work, the familiar rhythm of clicking keys and muttered curses, half in English, half in what sounded like creative profanity, filling the quiet library.
His fingers moved across the keyboard like a pianist playing a particularly complex piece, all fluid motion and unconscious precision.
"Right, we're in," he said after what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes. "Bloody hell, their security was absolute pants. My nan could've hacked this system with her knitting needles."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good for us, terrible for anyone who actually lives in that building.
" He was still typing, navigating through what looked like an incomprehensible maze of folders and files.
"Right, here we go. Building security server, uncompressed footage from camera 7-B.
The angle from across the street, full 4K resolution. "
He spun the laptop toward me with the kind of triumphant flourish that suggested he'd enjoyed the challenge immensely.
The difference was shocking. Instead of grainy pixels and indistinct shadows, I could see everything, the texture of the brick walls, the details of the dumpster, the individual pieces of trash scattered across the alley floor.
Even the pattern on my purse was visible as I chased the mugger into the darkness, my figure moving with the kind of desperate determination that only came from protecting something irreplaceable.
And there, stepping back into the shadows...
"Oh my God," I breathed.
The figure was clearer now, though still partially obscured by the interplay of light and shadow.
But I could make out the broad shoulders, the height, the way he moved with fluid precision that belonged in a different world entirely.
Most importantly, I could see the moment he struck.
A single, controlled movement that sent the mugger crashing to the ground with surgical efficiency.
Professional. Precise. Familiar.
"That's not random Good Samaritan work, is it?" Micah said quietly.
"No, it's not."
We stared at the screen in silence, both of us processing what we were seeing. The figure melted back into the shadows with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of training, of experience, of someone who knew exactly how to disappear when disappearing was necessary.
Someone who'd had a lifetime of practice being invisible.
"Morgan," Micah said carefully, his voice taking on the tone he used when he was about to say something I might not want to hear, "what exactly do you think you're looking at?"
I thought about Lance. About the way he moved when he thought I wasn't watching, the deadly grace of his training sessions, the surgical precision with which he could end a threat without breaking a sweat.
Exactly like what we just witnessed.
"I think," I said slowly, tasting each word before I committed to it, "I'm looking at proof that I'm not losing my mind."
And possibly proof that my husband isn't as dead as everyone thinks.
I paused the video, studying the figure's stance. "It looks like someone with professional training. Someone who knows exactly how to incapacitate without killing."
Someone who fights like a DuLac.
"Morgan." His voice was gentle but serious. "What are you really thinking here?"
I'm thinking the impossible might not be so impossible after all.
"I'm thinking," I said, meeting his eyes, "that maybe it's time to consider some very unlikely possibilities."
Like the possibility that my husband faked his death. Like the possibility that he's been watching over me all along.
"Such as?"
I took a deep breath, tasting hope and terror in equal measure.
"Such as the possibility that Lance isn't dead."
The words hung between us like a challenge, dangerous and electric with possibility. Micah stared at me for a long moment, then looked back at the screen.
At the figure who moved exactly like the man I'd married.
"You know how that sounds," he said finally.
"I know exactly how it sounds." I leaned forward, urgency making my voice sharp. "But look at that footage, Micah. Really look at it. Does that look random to you?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying the frozen image on the screen.
"No," he admitted. "It doesn't look random at all. So maybe you and I get some answers.”