CHAPTER 5 #2
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And you still did it.”
“Yes.”
I laugh once and press my fingers against my forehead. “Do you have another answer?”
“No.”
The simplicity of it steals the next accusation from me.
I move to the kitchen because standing still feels impossible. The cabinets contain canned food, pasta, rice, coffee, bottled water. Everything is organized by type and expiration date.
I open the refrigerator.
Eggs. Cheese. Apples. A carton of oat milk in the brand I buy.
I hold the door open.
“Why is this here?”
“You use it.”
“You stocked a safehouse with my milk.”
“I stocked it two days ago.”
“Before I found the ledger.”
“Yes.”
The cold from the refrigerator reaches my face.
“You knew I would end up here.”
“I knew it was possible.”
“No. You prepared for me specifically.”
He does not deny it.
I close the door.
A memory rises: the same brand of milk appearing in my office refrigerator after the store downstairs stopped carrying it. I assumed Mina bought it.
“You’ve done this before.”
“What?”
“Changed small things.”
Rafe stands, though the motion seems reluctant because his hand remains untreated.
“Sit down,” I say automatically.
He does.
I hate that he listens now.
I return to the table, put on fresh gloves, and finish cleaning the cut. The wound is not deep enough for stitches if he keeps it closed. I apply adhesive strips and wrap the hand.
He watches my face rather than the bandage.
“Tell me what you changed.”
“Tonight is not the time.”
I pull the wrap tighter.
His fingers flex.
“That hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I secure the bandage. “Tell me.”
He looks toward the disconnected camera.
“Your building changed security contractors.”
I remember the new guard at the front desk, the repaired side entrance, the electronic lock installed after a package theft.
“You did that.”
“Yes.”
“The light outside my apartment?”
“I had it replaced.”
“The man who kept waiting near the train station?”
“He stopped.”
The phrasing is careful.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he stopped.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes quickly enough that I believe it.
“Did you hurt him?”
“Yes.”
I remove the gloves and fold them together so the blood remains inside.
“You don’t get to decide who can stand near me.”
“He followed you home four times.”
“You still don’t get to decide.”
“No.”
Again.
I step away from the table.
The apartment feels colder than it did when we entered, though the heating unit hums steadily.
“Where is my bag?”
“Beside the sofa.”
I retrieve it and check the torn seam where Rafe removed the tracker. The hidden drive remains in the lining on the opposite side.
He watches me examine it.
“You have the copy,” he says.
“I have many things you do not have the right to know.”
“You have the full ledger export.”
It is not a question.
I sit on the far end of the sofa with the bag against my side. “Why do you think that?”
“You left an incomplete drive at the office.”
My pulse shifts.
“You were inside.”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“The man in the corridor photographed the desk after you left.”
“You have the photograph.”
“I have access to the person who received it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I look at the door. It is unlocked. Rafe could stop me before I reached the stairs, but the possibility of leaving remains visible.
“What happens if I give you the drive?”
“I make copies and return it.”
“And then?”
“We determine who created the record under your name.”
“You already know.”
“I know who had access. That is not the same thing.”
“How many?”
“Three people at the level required.”
“Names.”
His expression closes.
I stand.
“Nora.”
“No. You do not get to tell me I’m in danger, bring me into a locked building, admit you have watched me for months, and then protect the names of the people trying to kill me.”
“One of them raised me.”
The words stop me near the door.
Not because of tenderness. Because they are the first thing he has said that sounds involuntary.
“Marcello Bellandi?”
Rafe’s gaze stays on mine.
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“My cousin Tommaso. My brother Leo.”
“Which one gave the order?”
“Tommaso delivered it with Marcello’s authorization.”
“What does Leo know?”
“I don’t know.”
I study him.
He believes that uncertainty is more dangerous than any confirmed enemy.
“You don’t trust your own family.”
“I trust specific people under specific conditions.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient.”
“No. It sounds lonely.”
The change in his face is almost invisible.
I should not care.
I grip the door handle.
“Where will you go?” he asks.
“Police.”
“The first question they will ask is why a forensic accountant stole protected client data.”
“I preserved evidence of murder.”
“You preserved a database tied to multiple ongoing investigations, shell companies, and public officials. Before anyone verifies the deaths, Aurelia will accuse you of theft and Pryce will distance the firm.”
The accuracy of the prediction makes me pause.
“Then I’ll go to Mina.”
“They know her name.”
My hand tightens around the handle.
“Because you know her name?”
“Because the other team searched your contacts.”
A hard, helpless anger moves through me. “You keep giving me reasons to stay as though that makes staying a choice.”
“It is a choice.”
“Between you and men shooting at me.”
“Yes.”
“That is not freedom.”
“No.”
He says it more quietly this time.
I release the door.
Not because I trust him.
Because I trust the threat.
“For tonight,” I say. “I stay for tonight.”
Rafe does not move.
“You sleep in the main room,” I continue. “I take the bedroom. The door remains unlocked from my side. You do not enter. You do not touch my bag. You do not use a camera.”
“Agreed.”
“I contact Mina in the morning.”
“No.”
I stare at him.
“The call can be traced.”
“Then find a way it cannot.”
He considers this.
“Agreed.”
“You tell me every new threat as soon as you learn it.”
“If the information does not create immediate additional danger.”
“That is not an agreement.”
“It is the most honest answer I can give.”
I want to refuse. I also know absolute promises are easier to make than to keep, particularly for a man who considers deception a form of risk management.
“Then I decide what counts as additional danger.”
“No.”
We look at each other.
The negotiation is absurd. I have no leverage except the drive he knows I possess, and he could take it physically before I reached for the pepper spray.
He has not.
“Joint decision,” I say.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Joint,” I repeat.
After a moment, he nods.
I move toward the bedroom.
The doorway opens onto a small room with a bed, a dresser, and no personal objects. I check the window, closet, and underside of the bed while Rafe remains in the main room.
There is no camera.
I remove my shoes and place them beside the bed. My coat stays on the chair. The bag goes beneath the pillow, strap looped around my wrist.
I lie down without undressing.
Sleep does not come.
Every sound becomes a possibility: the building settling, a pipe knocking, Rafe moving once in the other room. I stare at the ceiling and try not to imagine how often he has watched me do the same thing in my own apartment.
After an hour, I get up.
The main room is dark except for the light above the stove.
Rafe sits in the dining chair facing the door. His gun rests on the table beside him, unloaded but close enough to assemble in seconds. He has changed the bandage on his hand because blood had begun to show through mine.
“You should sleep,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I will.”
“When?”
He does not answer.
I walk to the kitchen and fill a glass with water. The refrigerator hums beside me, stocked with the milk I never asked him to buy.
On the bookshelf, the disconnected camera points toward the sofa.
“Why did you really turn it off?” I ask.
Rafe looks at the lens.
“I told you. Another team entered your apartment.”
“That explains removing mine. Not turning this one off three weeks ago.”
His attention returns to me.
The silence lasts long enough that I hear the building’s heating system stop.
“You prepared this place for me,” I say. “You stocked the refrigerator. You knew my clothing size. You knew I would pull the car door twice. None of that came from watching an office or reviewing my contacts.”
“No.”
“What changed three weeks ago?”
His injured hand closes slowly on the edge of the table.
I wait.
When he answers, his voice is lower than before.
“Watching you through a screen stopped being enough.”