CHAPTER 6
RAFE
Not movement. Nora has shifted beneath the blankets several times in the past hour, each change followed by a silence too deliberate to be sleep.
This is metal against metal.
I remove my hand from the edge of the table and listen.
The building settles around us. Water moves through old pipes. A delivery truck changes gears on the street two blocks away.
Then the sound repeats.
A short scrape from the rear of the apartment.
Nora’s bedroom window opens onto an interior shaft. The opening is narrow, and the fire escape ends one floor below, but difficult is not impossible. Difficult only reduces the number of people capable of trying.
I assemble the gun without turning on another light.
The bedroom door remains closed.
I move toward it and stop before touching the handle.
She told me not to enter.
A rule does not become meaningless because following it is inconvenient.
“Nora.”
No answer.
I knock once. “Nora.”
The mattress makes no sound.
I try the handle.
Unlocked.
The bedroom is empty.
The blanket has been arranged into a rough shape beneath the sheet. Her coat is gone. So are her shoes and the bag she kept looped around her wrist.
The window stands open three inches.
Cold air moves the curtain.
For half a second, the room loses dimension. My attention reduces to the open window and the absence where she should be.
Then training returns.
I check the closet, under the bed, and the small bathroom attached to the hall. Nothing. The window frame has fresh marks near the latch, but they are on the exterior side.
Someone attempted to open it.
Nora either followed the sound or used the intrusion as an opportunity to leave.
Both options are unacceptable.
The second thought is worse because it is personal.
I leave the apartment and descend the front stairwell without using the elevator. The building has four residential floors above two empty commercial units. The main entrance remains locked. The interior camera shows no movement since we arrived.
At the second-floor landing, I stop.
The maintenance door is open.
I installed a thin plastic marker in the top hinge six months ago. It now lies on the concrete floor, broken cleanly through the middle.
The access was forced from the service shaft.
Nora did not flee.
She heard someone entering and went toward them.
Anger comes first. Relief follows so closely I cannot separate them.
I enter the service corridor.
A single emergency light glows near the far stairwell. The concrete walls are unpainted, crossed by electrical conduit and old water stains. The air smells of dust, cold metal, and discharged chemicals.
Discharged chemicals.
An extinguisher.
A sharp impact sounds below me.
Then a man curses.
I move down the stairs.
Something heavy strikes the fire door on the next landing. The door swings inward, and a man in dark clothing stumbles through with white powder across his coat and face.
Nora follows him.
She holds the red extinguisher in both hands, her hair loose around her shoulders and her injured knee stiff beneath the torn fabric of her pants.
The man reaches for the railing.
Nora drives the bottom of the extinguisher into his wrist.
He loses his grip.
I catch him before he falls down the stairs, pull him backward, and lock one arm behind his back. He twists hard enough to dislocate his own shoulder if I allow it.
I do not.
“Gun,” Nora says.
I see it beneath his coat.
She takes it before he can reach with his free hand.
Her grip is wrong but cautious, finger outside the trigger guard.
“Put it on the floor,” I tell her.
“No.”
“Nora.”
“He was trying to get upstairs.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then we agree he shouldn’t have this.”
“We agree. Put it on the floor where neither of you can fire it accidentally.”
Her eyes move from me to the man.
The decision takes less than a second. She places the gun against the wall and kicks it beyond his reach.
The man tries to turn his head toward her.
I push his face against the concrete.
“Who sent you?”
He laughs once, a short breath with no humor in it. “You know.”
“Say the name.”
His body shifts.
Not an attempt to escape. Something smaller.
His jaw closes.
I drive my thumb beneath it and force his mouth open.
A hard shape moves between his teeth.
“Nora, gloves.”
“What?”
“Kit in the apartment. Now.”
She does not move. “What is it?”
The man bites down.
I force two fingers between his molars. He jerks his head, teeth cutting through the glove and into my knuckle.
The capsule cracks.
A bitter chemical odor fills the space.
“Call an ambulance,” Nora says.
“No phone signal down here.”
She runs upstairs.
The man convulses beneath me.
Foam gathers at the corner of his mouth. I roll him onto his side, keep his airway clear, and search his pockets while his body seizes against the concrete.
Wallet without identification.
Two spare magazines.
Lock picks.
A small camera.
One printed photograph folded into quarters.
Nora returns with the first-aid kit and the isolated phone I left on the counter.
“I enabled emergency calling,” she says. “They’re sending paramedics.”
I take the medical gloves from the kit and replace the torn one.
The man’s pulse is fast and uneven.
“What did he take?” Nora asks.
“Poison capsule.”
“People actually carry those?”
“Some people carry worse.”
“That was not a useful answer.”
“It was the accurate one.”
She kneels on the other side of him.
The oversized sweatshirt she found in the bedroom reaches halfway down her thighs beneath her coat. I bought three sizes because I did not know which fit she preferred when she was not dressed for work.
The fact feels different now that she is wearing one.
I move my attention to the man.
Nora opens the airway kit and follows the instructions printed inside. Her hands are steady, but her breathing is not.
“You should move back.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“He came to kill you.”
“He may know who sent him.”
“He will be dead before the ambulance arrives.”
Her mouth presses into a line.
The man’s convulsions slow.
Nora places two fingers against his throat. “There’s still a pulse.”
“For now.”
“We keep trying for now.”
She says it without looking at me.
I assist because she is correct, though the effort is unlikely to change the outcome.
The man stops breathing before the paramedics reach the building.
Nora begins chest compressions. I take over after the first minute, using enough force to break ribs if necessary. When the medical team arrives, they continue for another nine minutes.
It changes nothing.
A paramedic pulls the sheet over the man’s face.
The hallway fills with people, equipment, and questions that cannot be answered honestly.
The building is registered to a holding company with private medical response and security agreements.
The crew was instructed before arrival to treat the incident as an intrusion at a protected residence.
They do not know who owns it. They do not need to.
Nora watches the body being carried out.
Her face has become pale beneath the red mark on her cheek.
“You need to sit down,” I say.
“No.”
“You nearly watched a man die.”
“I did watch him die.”
She looks at her hands.
There is white extinguisher powder on her sleeves and a small smear of blood near one thumb. Not hers.
“I thought he was trying to escape,” she says. “I didn’t know he was trying to kill himself.”
“You could not have known.”
“He knew exactly where to bite.”
“Yes.”
“That means he expected this.”
“Yes.”
She closes her eyes briefly.
I want to touch the back of her neck. The impulse is immediate and specific, less about comfort than confirmation. Warm skin. Pulse. Presence.
I keep my hands at my sides.
The paramedics leave.
Nico arrives through the main entrance five minutes later.
He is six feet four and broad enough that people remember his size before they remember his face. Tonight he wears a green work jacket over a black sweater, making him look like a contractor who became lost and decided to dispose of a body while he was here.
He sees Nora first.
His eyebrows rise.
I have never brought anyone to this address.
“Garage,” I tell him.
He nods and follows the medical team downstairs to deal with the remaining vehicle and reports.
Nora notices the exchange. “That is the man you trust?”
“Within limits.”
“He looks disappointed that I’m alive.”
“He is surprised.”
“There is a difference?”
“With Nico, yes.”
She returns to the apartment.
I follow after checking the stairwell.
The main room appears altered by her presence now. The water glass beside the sink. Shoes left near the bedroom door. The disconnected camera placed face down on the bookshelf.
Nora picks up her bag from the floor near the maintenance access.
“You brought this with you.”
“I heard the window.”
“So you took the bag and a knife.”
She removes the kitchen knife from her coat pocket and places it carefully on the table.
“I wasn’t planning to stab anyone.”
“You brought a knife to investigate a forced window.”
“I didn’t know there was a complimentary firearm downstairs.”
I almost respond. The wrong answer would sound like admiration. The honest one would be worse.
“You should have woken me.”
“You were on the phone.”
“I ended the call before you left the bedroom.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You should have checked.”
The sharpness leaves her expression.
Not fear. Not anger exactly.
Something injured.
“You’re right,” she says. “Next time someone breaks into the place where you’re holding me, I’ll be more considerate.”
The words expose the mistake in mine.
I knew she heard the window and chose to act. I also know why. She does not believe she can depend on me without surrendering something essential.
Telling her she should have sought my protection only proves the belief.
“I spoke badly,” I say.
She looks at me as if the admission is more suspicious than denial.
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“What did you mean?”
“That I need to know when you move toward a threat.”
“So you can stop me.”
“So I can reach you.”
The distinction matters to me.
I do not know whether it matters to her.
She turns away and removes the man’s belongings from the table where I left them. Wallet. Camera. Folded photograph.
“Did you look at this?”
“Not yet.”
She unfolds the photograph.
I know the room before the image is flat.
Nora’s apartment.
Her sofa.
Her body curled beneath a blanket, one hand tucked under her face.
The photograph was taken from the far corner of the living room, later than the night I entered to remove my camera. The angle is higher and closer to the hallway.
Not mine.
Nora becomes completely still.
The difference between seeing an unknown man die and seeing herself asleep is visible in the way her shoulders draw inward.
“When?” she asks.
I check the date printed in the lower corner.
Nine days ago.
“I was in Detroit,” I say.
She looks at me.
The explanation is not innocence. She knows that. I know it.
“Could one of your people have taken it?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because no one had permission to enter.”
Her laugh is quiet and sharp. “Permission.”
I do not defend the word.
She turns the photograph over.
A faint blue streak crosses one edge. Above it, nearly cut off, are three printed letters and part of a logo.
P&C.
Pryce & Cole uses blue-striped paper for internal review packets.
Nora touches the mark with the scarred edge of her thumb.
“This was printed at my office.”
“Or on paper taken from it.”
“The stock stays in the secured supply room.”
“Who has access?”
“Everyone above associate level. Office management. Cleaning supervisor.”
“Pryce?”
“Of course.”
She looks toward the window.
“Someone at my firm gave them this.”
“Yes.”
The direct answer hurts her more than uncertainty did.
I see it happen.
Nora places the photograph on the table and smooths the corners. She does not touch her face or look away. She organizes the object because the event cannot be organized.
“What do you need to access the complete records?” she asks.
“The drive.”
“And after I give it to you?”
“We work from a location I control.”
“No.”
“Then we cannot examine it safely.”
“That isn’t the part I’m refusing.”
She turns to face me.
Her eyes are tired, but there is nothing uncertain in them now.
“You don’t take the drive and decide what I’m allowed to see. You don’t remove me from the investigation. You don’t tell me the danger is too complicated and then lock another door.”
“Nora—”
“I found the ledger. My name is in it. My office is involved. That photograph was taken in my home.” Her voice breaks on the last word, only slightly. She hears it and continues anyway. “I’m not spending the rest of this hiding in rooms while you investigate my life.”
“The people involved will kill you.”
“They already tried.”
“Yes.”
“So either I learn enough to stop them, or I wait for someone else to decide whether I survive.”
I have no answer that does not confirm her point.
She picks up the photograph again.
“I want the complete records.”
The demand is reckless.
It is also inevitable.
I look at the disconnected camera and the unlocked apartment door.
Keeping Nora alive by force would be possible for a few days. Perhaps longer.
Keeping her with me after that will require something I have never learned to give without conditions.
Access.
Information.
Choice.
“You’ll have them,” I say.
She watches my face for evidence of qualification.
I add none.