Chapter Fifteen #2
“You think it’s her,” Anja said quietly.
“I think she’s got something going on,” Kayne admitted. “I think she’s lying about a hell of a lot. And I think Chloe’s scared to admit it.”
“She’s not the one who installed this.” Anja tapped the bag. “This was done by someone meticulous and patient. Danica’s neither. She’s a chaos gremlin with a credit card.”
That startled a short, humorless laugh out of him. “Fair point.”
“But,” Anja added, voice firming again, “it doesn’t mean she didn’t give someone access. Willingly or not.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Should we tell Chloe?”
Anja hesitated. “Not yet. She’s rattled. The ladder shook her, and her sister’s turning her inside out emotionally. If we drop this on her now, she’ll blame herself and possibly fall apart.”
“She’s already close,” he murmured.
“Then we keep her steady,” Anja said. “You tell her when we have something actionable. Until then, we keep her out of the crosshairs and off the guilt treadmill.”
Kayne nodded, appreciating the exercise-related metaphor despite himself. He trusted Anja. If she said wait, he’d wait. But that didn’t cool the anger simmering below the surface.
He lifted the bag and held the tiny camera up to the light. “This thing was watching her walk these halls.”
“Someone wants to track her patterns,” Anja said. “This isn’t a thrill or intimidation device. It’s recon. They’re studying her routines and vulnerabilities.”
Kayne’s blood iced. “So they can get closer.”
Anja’s grim eyes met his. “Exactly.”
A memory struck of Joel Erickson, slinking around where he didn’t belong, eyes always lingering a second too long. “Erickson,” he muttered.
“I thought of him too,” Anja concurred.
Kayne placed the evidence down with a deliberate calm he did not feel. “We shut down every point of access they think they have.”
“And find the next camera,” Anja said, “because trust me, there’s more.”
Kayne exhaled. “Then let’s hunt. Starting with Joel Erickson.”
God help the man who put eyes on Chloe, because Kayne would make damn sure those eyes never watched anything again.
#
Kayne didn’t like loose ends, and Joel Erickson had just slipped clean out of his hands.
“He didn’t show,” the foreman said. “No call. No text. Which ain’t like him. Guy was a screwup, sure, but he always showed.”
Kayne clocked the hesitation. The way Hal’s eyes flicked away. The unspoken something’s wrong hanging thick in the air. “Where does he live?”
Hal hesitated again. Then, “South side. Over by the old rail spur. Place is a dump.”
Kayne was already accessing the photo he’d snapped of Erickson’s contact information the other day. He found Chloe in the new manager’s office, going over instructions with Robin. She looked up when he rapped on the door, that reflexive lift of hope in her eyes cutting deeper than it should have.
After excusing herself, Chloe stepped into the hallway, her brows raised in question at seeing Anja and Leo behind him.
“We’re going out,” Kayne said quietly. “Anja and I.”
“Where?”
He didn’t lie, just edited. “Following up on something.”
Her eyes searched his face, reading what he wasn’t saying. She was getting better at that. “Is it dangerous?”
“Yes,” he answered gently. Then, softer, “But not for you.”
Leo straightened, protector mode fully engaged. “I’m not leaving her.”
Kayne met his gaze. “Good. I want you glued to her.”
Leo snorted. “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Kayne nodded once, approval clear. He turned back to Chloe. “I’ll check in. Don’t spiral.”
She huffed. “I don’t spiral.”
From down the hall, Anja lifted one pale brow.
Chloe sighed. “Fine. I spiral a little.”
Kayne brushed his knuckles against Chloe’s wrist, a brief touch that said I see you more than I promise. “Trust me.”
She nodded, even though he could feel her fear. He didn’t like leaving her, but he trusted Leo to keep her safe.
That was supposed to be his job.
The neighborhood where Joel Erickson lived looked as if it had given up sometime in the early 2000s and never bothered to recover.
Boarded-up storefronts. Graffiti layered so thick it felt historical.
A liquor store with bars on the windows and a flickering OPEN sign that lied as easily as people did.
Anja parked two blocks down, and they made their way up the cracked sidewalk. The apartment building squatted at the end of the street, concrete stained dark with age and neglect. The security door hung crooked on its hinges, permanently defeated.
“Well,” Anja said, “this place screams healthy life choices.”
They climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor, footsteps echoing too loudly in the narrow stairwell, looking for unit 3C.
Kayne knocked once. Firm. Professional.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
He didn’t like the quiet. There was no music or blaring TVs or voices bleeding through thin walls. There was no sign of life at all.
“This isn’t right,” he muttered, testing the knob. To his surprise, the door creaked open.
The smell hit them like a physical force.
Anja went still. “Decomp.”
Kayne exhaled through his nose and pushed the door the rest of the way open with his boot. “Of course it is.”
Joel Erickson lay sprawled on the stained carpet, one arm bent beneath him, the other stretched toward the bathroom as if he hadn’t quite made it. His skin had gone waxy, lips tinged blue. A syringe lay near his fingers, and another sat capped on the sink with a burnt spoon and a tourniquet.
No blood or struggle. Just a man who lost a fight he’d been picking for years.
“Well,” Anja said, scanning without stepping too far inside, “he’s not skipping work anymore.”
Kayne shot her a look.
“What?” she said. “Too soon?” Then, professional again. “Overdose. Heroin, maybe fentanyl.”
Kayne swallowed. The anger drained out of him, leaving something colder behind. “So he wasn’t casing the gym.”
“No,” Anja said. “My guess? He was searching for a place to shoot up.”
Kayne closed his eyes briefly, replaying it all. The IT room door. Erickson fumbling. The desperation. The way Erickson had hovered where he didn’t belong.
Not predatory, just broken.
“He was looking for somewhere quiet,” Kayne murmured. “Somewhere he wouldn’t get caught.”
“And he found it somewhere else,” Anja finished.
Kayne stepped back into the hall. “Call it in.”
She nodded, already dialing.
Joel Erickson was dead. Which meant whoever had been watching Chloe, planting cameras, and learning her routines, hadn’t made a mistake. They were still out there.
And now they’d lost a suspect . . . and gained a ghost.
#
Chloe wasn’t sure what possessed her to start chopping vegetables. Stress, probably. Or the bone-deep need to do something that felt normal and obediently domestic, even if nothing about today or yesterday or this entire horrifying week qualified as ordinary.
The safe house kitchen was quiet except for the rhythmic thock of her knife against the cutting board.
She’d found a stash of produce in the fridge—broccoli, peppers, cherry tomatoes, a lonely bunch of cilantro—and decided fate clearly wanted her to make a stir-fry, or at least wanted her hands busy and her thoughts distracted.
Behind her, the house hummed with a soft, controlled vigilance. Motion sensors blinked on the wall. A camera feed scrolled across Kayne’s laptop. Every shadow seemed to stand a little too straight.
She added chicken to the pan and tried not to think about hidden cameras in vents or dead construction workers.
Footsteps padded into the kitchen, and Anja dropped onto a stool at the island, looking too tired to even pretend she wasn’t.
“You’re cooking? Voluntarily?”
Chloe snorted. “I can cook.”
“I wasn’t judging.” Anja propped her cheek on her hand. “You’ve had the most traumatic week I’ve ever seen outside of homicide cases, and you’re making dinner.”
Chloe stirred the pan, letting heat fog up her lashes for a moment. “My aunt always said food stabilizes the soul.”
“Well,” Anja muttered, “my soul could use stabilizing. And possibly a nap. Or a week of naps.”
Kayne entered then, silent as a shadow and twice as intense. He stopped when he saw the spread on the stove.
“Cher, you didn’t have to cook.”
“I know,” Chloe said softly. “I wanted to.”
Anja straightened. “I second that. And I will express gratitude with absolutely no shame.” She reached for a bowl but froze when her hip popped. “Never mind. My body is eighty years old. Someone serve me.”
Kayne smirked and dished up a generous portion.
Ten minutes later, plates were mostly empty, the kitchen was warm, and for the first time all day, Chloe felt a flicker of peace. It might be fragile and temporary, but it was real.
Anja pushed her bowl away and tapped her nails on the counter. “Okay. As much as I’d love to stay awake and babysit the perimeter feeds all night, I’m crashing before my eyeballs mutiny.” She slid off the stool with a wince. “You two behave.”
She didn’t wait for a response, just shuffled down the hallway and disappeared into the guest room.
Silence settled, softening the edges of the space. The stove clicked as it cooled. Outside, a night breeze whispered through the tree line. Inside, Kayne watched her with that unreadable expression that made her heart trip over itself.
She turned back to the sink, rinsing her bowl unnecessarily. “Thanks for helping me show Robin around the gym today,” she said.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, muscles flexing slightly under the soft lighting. “That wasn’t helping, cher. That was my job.”
“No,” she said, glancing back at him. “What you’ve been doing goes way beyond a job.”
His eyes softened. “Maybe.”
She dried her hands on a towel, suddenly aware of every inch of space between them and how badly she wanted it gone.
“I keep thinking I’m handling things,” she murmured, “and then something else happens, and I’m right back to being afraid. Gosh, I hate that. I might not show it, but I am strong and independent.”