CHAPTER 13
NORA
Rafe drives as though every red light is a personal insult he has decided not to answer with violence.
That restraint is the only reason I remain in the passenger seat.
He wanted to leave me at the townhouse.
I refused.
He told me Mina’s apartment might already be an active attack site.
I told him I know Mina’s habits, hiding places, and thought process better than anyone he could send.
The argument ended when I said I would follow in another car if necessary.
Rafe looked at me for three seconds, then opened the passenger door.
Now he takes the sedan through the late-afternoon traffic while I remain connected to Mina through one earbud.
She is moving downward through the stairwell.
The man above her is moving more slowly.
That worries Rafe.
“Someone who believes she cannot escape,” he says.
Mina hears him. “Please tell the terrifying man his commentary is not helping.”
“He says it means the intruder thinks the exits are controlled.”
“That is worse.”
“It is.”
Rafe turns into an alley, passes a stopped truck, and rejoins the avenue ahead of traffic.
“Garage door,” he says. “Can she trigger the vehicle exit?”
“Mina, can you reach the garage?”
“I’m on the second-floor landing. The garage is below ground.”
“Fire alarm?” I ask.
“There are pull stations in the hall.”
The man’s footsteps stop.
Mina stops breathing.
I hear the faint metallic click of a door handle.
“Mina.”
“I’m here.”
“Which door?”
“He’s checking the second floor.”
Rafe changes lanes.
“How far?” I ask.
“Four minutes.”
Four minutes is an accounting error when money is involved.
With a person trapped in a stairwell, it is an era.
“Mina, go down.”
“He’ll hear.”
“He already knows you’re there.”
She swears under her breath and starts moving.
The sound above follows.
“Faster,” Rafe says.
“She heard you.”
“Good.”
Mina reaches the basement door.
Locked.
“I told you,” she whispers.
“Use the fire alarm,” I say.
“It’s on the other side.”
Rafe’s hand tightens on the wheel. “Kick the center of the door near the latch.”
“She is not built to break steel doors.”
“I am not sure how to take that,” Mina says.
“Can you remove your shoe?” I ask.
“What?”
“You keep the small toolkit in your purse.”
“I also keep lip balm. Neither opens doors.”
“The flat screwdriver.”
Movement. Fabric. A zipper.
The man above begins descending faster.
Rafe’s voice remains calm. “Insert it between the door and frame above the latch. Pull the handle while pushing the tool inward.”
Mina breathes hard.
Metal scrapes.
The footsteps come closer.
“Again,” he says.
The call fills with a sharp snap.
The door opens.
Mina runs.
A man shouts behind her.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Garage.”
“Find people.”
“It’s empty.”
“Alarm panel near the vehicle exit,” Rafe says. “Red cover.”
“I see it.”
“Pull it.”
The alarm erupts through the phone.
Rafe turns into Mina’s street.
Residents appear at windows and building entrances. A garage gate begins rising as the fire system unlocks it.
Mina runs beneath before it fully opens.
A man emerges behind her.
Dark jacket. Maintenance case.
Dean Mercer.
I recognize the partial face from the video.
Rafe brakes in the middle of the street.
“Stay in the car.”
I am already removing the seat belt.
“Nora.”
“Mina is outside.”
“Stay behind the engine block.”
It is not permission, but it contains useful information.
I get out.
Mina sees me and changes direction.
Dean sees Rafe.
He drops the maintenance case and reaches inside his jacket.
Rafe draws his weapon.
People are pouring from the building now. Children, residents, an elderly man carrying a small dog wrapped in a blanket.
Rafe cannot fire safely.
Dean knows it.
He runs toward the alley.
Rafe follows.
I meet Mina near the hood of the sedan.
She crashes into me hard enough to hurt my ribs. Her black hair has come loose from its braid. She wears a camel coat over pajama pants and one boot. The other foot is in a sock already dark from wet pavement.
“You came,” she says.
“Of course.”
“That was a stupid thing to do.”
“I know.”
She pulls back and grips my shoulders. Her round glasses sit crooked on her face. There is a red scratch along one cheek.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is that blood?”
“Tomato sauce.”
I look at the red mark on her sleeve.
“You threw food at him?”
“It was hot.”
A gunshot sounds in the alley.
Mina’s hands tighten.
I move us behind the sedan.
Rafe returns thirty seconds later without Dean.
His face tells me the result before he speaks.
“He had a vehicle waiting.”
“You let him go?” Mina asks.
Rafe looks at her missing shoe, the tomato sauce, and the screwdriver still in her hand.
“He chose a route with civilians between us.”
Mina pushes her glasses into place. “That sounds almost ethical.”
“It was tactical.”
“Of course.”
Sirens approach.
The fire alarm continues above us.
“We need to leave,” Rafe says.
“I’m not going anywhere until we know what he did inside,” Mina replies.
“The police will search.”
“And find whatever he wants them to find.”
She looks at me.
“He was on my laptop when I came home.”
My stomach drops.
“What was open?”
“The Pryce & Cole logs.”
Rafe looks toward the building entrance.
Police vehicles turn onto the street.
“We cannot enter now,” he says.
Mina points at the alarm crowd. “We live here. We tell them he was an intruder.”
“You have stolen corporate data on your computer.”
“Preserved evidence.”
“Police will not use that distinction until after seizure.”
Mina’s face changes.
She looks at me. “He sounds like you.”
“That is the cruelest thing anyone has said today.”
Rafe ignores us.
“We leave. Leo can retrieve your equipment through counsel before a warrant is issued.”
“You trust Leo?” I ask.
“I need him.”
That is not the same answer he would have given yesterday.
A police officer begins directing residents away from the garage.
Rafe opens the rear door.
Mina looks at him. “Am I being kidnapped?”
“No,” I say.
Rafe says, “Not by me.”
She turns to me. “Why was that clarification necessary?”
“It usually is.”
We enter the car.
Rafe drives before officers block the street.
Mina sits beside me in the back, one socked foot tucked beneath her. She watches Rafe in the mirror with the concentration of someone examining a suspicious transaction.
“So,” she says. “You are the stalker.”
Rafe keeps his eyes on the road. “Yes.”
I turn toward him.
Mina does too.
“You just admit it?”
“Yes.”
“That is deeply inconvenient for my moral framework.”
“Mine is less restrictive.”
“Mina,” I say.
“What? I nearly died. I’m allowed one inappropriate conversation.”
Rafe makes a call to Leo.
He does not use a greeting.
“I need immediate counsel at Mina Park’s building. Retrieve a laptop before police inventory. Legitimately.”
A man’s voice responds, too low for me to understand.
Rafe’s expression hardens.
“No. Do not use the administrative system.”
Another response.
“Because your access was recorded last night.”
Silence fills the car.
Even Mina stops talking.
Rafe listens.
Then he says, “You can explain in person.”
He ends the call.
“What did Leo say?” I ask.
“That he accessed Orpheus because he received an alert linked to your name.”
“What alert?”
“He would not say by phone.”
Mina leans forward between the seats. “Is Orpheus the death spreadsheet?”
“System,” Rafe says.
“That was not a meaningful correction.”
“It is broader than a spreadsheet.”
“Congratulations.”
We take Mina to a protected apartment controlled by Leo’s law firm. It is in a high-rise near the river, furnished for executives who need temporary housing and apparently women fleeing evidence thieves in tomato-stained coats.
Leo is waiting when we arrive.
He is younger than Rafe and resembles him only around the eyes. His hair is dark brown rather than black, longer at the top, and he wears a navy suit without a tie. Where Rafe enters a room by measuring it, Leo enters as though the room has been expecting him.
He looks at Mina first.
“You are Ms. Park?”
“That depends on whether you’re the helpful Bellandi.”
“I was hoping there might be one.”
Mina considers him. “Undetermined.”
Leo turns to Rafe. “I accessed Orpheus because a relocation account triggered an unauthorized closure reservation.”
“Whose?” Rafe asks.
“A warehouse employee I moved three months ago.”
“Without authorization.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Tommaso was forcing him to falsify inventory transfers.”
Leo’s composure shifts. Not fear. Anger held beneath manners.
“When the man refused,” he continues, “his name appeared in the closure system. I removed him before the payment cleared. Last night, the account reactivated.”
“At 9:46,” I say.
Leo looks at me.
His attention is sharp but not invasive. “You must be Nora.”
“You requested the alert?”
“Yes. I logged in to see whether the man had been found.”
“Was my record visible?”
“Not under his account.”
“Did you search my name?”
“No.”
Rafe watches his brother.
“Prove it.”
Leo takes out his phone and places it on the table. “My independent audit logs are there.”
“You maintain separate logs?”
“I stopped trusting Orpheus two years ago.”
“That would have been useful to mention.”
“You stopped answering my calls two years ago.”
The brothers look at each other.
There is history in the silence, but no time to excavate it.
Mina clears her throat. “While the family therapy develops naturally, someone searched my computer.”
Leo looks at her. “My attorney is at your building. The laptop will be preserved through a formal property claim.”
“Will the police accept that?”
“They will accept that it belongs partly to your employer and contains privileged audit materials whose ownership is disputed.”
“That sounds annoyingly competent.”
“Thank you.”
She narrows her eyes. “I haven’t decided whether it was praise.”
Rafe turns to me. “We need to check your apartment before Mercer returns.”
“I’m coming.”
“Yes.”
The absence of argument surprises me.
Mina reaches for my sleeve. “Nora.”
“I know the layout. I can tell if something moved.”
“You also have bruised ribs and the survival instincts of an unpaid intern.”
“I’ll be with Rafe.”
Her gaze travels to him.
“That is not entirely reassuring.”
“It’s the best option.”
Saying it aloud changes something.
Rafe’s face gives no reaction, but he heard the choice inside the sentence.
We leave Mina with Leo and return to Lakeview.
Night has fallen by the time we reach my street.
The second surveillance vehicle is gone.
Nico waits in the service entrance wearing a dark coat and holding a building access card.
“No police inside yet,” he says. “Management reported the fire alarm at Park’s building, not here. Two men approached this address. One left after a phone call. Mercer entered through the front posing as maintenance, then left for Park’s apartment.”
“Did anyone enter after?” Rafe asks.
“No.”
Nico gives me the access card.
Not Rafe.
Me.
The gesture feels intentional.
I unlock the service door.
My building smells of laundry detergent and someone’s dinner. Ordinary smells. Mine, in a communal way. The familiarity hurts.
We use the stairs.
Rafe stays one step behind without touching me.
At my door, the electronic lock shows no visible damage.
I enter the code.
The light turns green.
Inside, everything appears normal.
The lamp beside the sofa is on. A mug remains in the sink. The blanket from the photograph is folded across the back of the couch.
I left none of those things that way.
“The lamp was off,” I say.
Rafe waits in the doorway.
“The mug was beside the computer.”
“Do not touch anything.”
I move through the living room.
The ceramic vase stands on the bookshelf, slightly left of center. Behind it, where Rafe installed his camera, a tiny hole remains in the wall.
I take out the camera I preserved from the safehouse and compare the mounting size.
It fits.
“Yours was here.”
“Yes.”
I move the vase.
A second lens looks back at me from inside the upper shelf.
Smaller.
Newer.
Rafe crosses the room immediately.
He stops before touching it.
“Not mine,” he says.
The words do not produce relief.
They divide the violation into categories.
I take photographs.
Rafe scans the device and follows a thin cable into the wall.
“This one is active.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Possibly.”
“Do not destroy it.”
He looks at me.
I hold his gaze.
“Trace first.”
Rafe gives one nod.
In the bedroom, drawers have been opened and closed carefully enough that most people would not notice. I notice. My socks are folded in the wrong direction. A file box beneath the bed has shifted two inches.
The computer remains on the desk.
Rafe examines it without touching the keyboard.
“A drive was connected recently.”
“Can you tell what they added?”
“Not here.”
I walk toward the window.
The curtains are open.
Across the street, dark windows reflect my building. Any one of them could contain another lens.
A hand closes around the back of the desk chair.
Rafe’s, not mine.
He is holding himself in place.
I realize he wants to move me away from the window.
He does not.
“Close the curtains,” I say.
He does.
The action is simple.
Requested.
I breathe again.
On the wall behind the desk, a small shadow marks the place where my framed certification hangs slightly crooked.
It is the same certificate visible in the photograph of me sleeping.
I take it down.
A memory card has been taped to the backing.
Rafe moves beside me.
“Did you put this here?”
“No.”
The card is wrapped in clear plastic.
Not planted to be found by police. Hidden for someone who knows where to look.
I remove it carefully.
“What is it?” Rafe asks.
“I don’t know.”
He holds out an evidence sleeve.
I place the card inside.
As I do, I look at his hand.
The fresh bandage.
The old scar.
The careful distance between his fingers and mine.
“How many times did you enter this apartment?” I ask.
His gaze shifts toward the locked door.
“Four.”
The number is too exact to be invented.
I turn toward him.
“Tell me about every one.”