Chapter Four
Dominic
Three flights of stairs in the dark, neither of us talking.
Charlie walked barefoot beside me, heels dangling from two fingers, the dark wig from the gala stuffed in her bag. I carried her things and kept my mouth shut and tried not to think about what had just happened in the backseat of my SUV.
Tried. Failed.
Inside, she dropped her shoes by the door and went straight to the bathroom without looking at me. The shower ran for twenty minutes. When she came out with wet hair and climbed into bed, I grabbed the blanket, claimed the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
I didn't want the couch. I needed it. My head was a mess, her voice still in my ears, her body still mapped against mine, and the assignment hadn't changed just because I'd broken every rule I'd set for myself.
I didn't sleep. By 0500 I gave up pretending and pulled out my laptop. Cross-referenced Charlie's case file against the backgrounds Cass had sent over: financials, known associates, travel patterns for Walsh, Kiser, Hoyle, and Travis Yount. The data had holes. Too many holes.
Behind me, Charlie slept hard. No restless tossing like the first two nights. Whatever had happened between us, in the Conservatory, in the car, had burned off whatever was keeping her awake.
At 0630, the bathroom door opened. I didn't turn around. Kept my eyes on the screen, on the threat matrix I was building, on anything that wasn't the sound of her bare feet on hardwood.
"You're on the couch."
I looked up. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the main room, coffee mug already in hand, hair pulled off her face by an elastic headband.
Wearing my dress shirt from last night. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem hitting mid-thigh, half the buttons undone.
She'd apparently scooped it up with her things from the SUV.
She noticed me noticing. Didn't acknowledge it. Just raised her mug. "I made coffee. Don't read into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim. The air between us was charged. Not the warm, tangled energy from last night but sharper. The awkwardness of two people who'd crossed a line and were both pretending the line still existed.
"So." She sipped. "About last night."
"What about it?"
"We should probably talk about it."
"Probably."
She waited. I waited. Neither of us talked about it.
"Great conversation," she said. "Really productive."
"I thought so."
Her mouth twitched. The bratty armor was sliding back into place: the deflection, the sarcasm, the girl who didn't give a damn about anything too much. As if last night hadn't shifted everything between us.
I let her pretend. For now.
"I'm running the case," I said, turning my laptop so she could see the screen.
"Backgrounds on all four suspects. Kiser's financials show he's been liquidating assets quietly, consistent with someone preparing for federal indictment, not someone spending money on a harassment campaign.
Hoyle's credit cards are maxed. She's borrowing money from friends to cover basic expenses.”
"So she definitely can't afford to hire anyone."
"Not unless her intimidation budget is zero." I scrolled. "Travis Yount. IT support at a midsize firm downtown. Salary's modest. No unusual transactions. Social media activity is..." I paused. "Prolific."
"Sad-boy poetry and relationship memes. I know. I blocked him on everything."
"He created three new accounts after you blocked the originals."
Her jaw tightened. "That's just Travis being Travis."
"That's fixation."
"It's pathetic. There's a difference."
There was. But the line between them was thinner than most people wanted to believe. I filed it and moved on.
THE BOX WAS WAITING outside her door when I went to check the hallway at 0700.
Plain cardboard. No return address. No postage. Hand-delivered. I stopped Charlie from touching it, pulled on gloves, and opened it on the kitchen counter while she watched from three feet away, arms crossed, coffee forgotten.
Photos. Dozens of them.
Printed on quality photo stock: heavy, glossy, professional grade. Every one of them had been shredded. Not carelessly, either. Cut into even strips, then cross-cut into confetti. Arranged in the box like a mosaic of destruction.
Charlie reached past me and picked up a fragment. Her fingers were steady, but her face wasn't.
"These are mine," she said. "My photos. From my archive." She turned the piece, studying the sliver of image visible. "This is from the Kiser story. And this one —" She picked up another. "This is the mayor's affair. Two years ago."
She dug deeper, sorting through the confetti with hands that shook slightly despite her best efforts.
"They cherry-picked. These are my best shots, the ones that broke the biggest stories.
Someone went through my entire archive, selected specific images, had them printed on expensive stock, and then shredded them. "
The message was clear. I can get to everything you care about.
"Your drives," I said. "The ones that were copied during the break-in."
"Had to be. The cloud backups are encrypted. The copies at Morty's office are locked in a safe." She stared at the ruined photos. "They downloaded my archive ten days ago. Then they took the time to go through it, pick the photos that mattered most, have them printed, and destroy them."
The effort involved was what made my stomach drop. This wasn't rage. This wasn't impulsive. Someone with resources and patience had spent days turning her best work into scrap. Destroying the prints accomplished nothing tactically. The point was making her know they could.
Planning and budget and follow-through. That profile didn't match a heartbroken IT guy or a drunk socialite drowning in debt.
I photographed everything. Bagged the box. Called Cass.
"New threat delivered to her door. Shredded photos from her stolen archive. Quality print job, cross-cut. No postage. Hand delivery."
"Someone's spending money," Cass said, his voice flat in a way that meant he was already calculating.
"And time. This took planning."
"I'll put June on it. She's already running the background deep-dives. This tightens the profile: resources, access to her digital files, follow-through."
June. Juniper Park, Heartline's COO. Ex-Interpol, financial crimes. If anyone could trace the money trail behind this harassment campaign, it was her.
"Copy that. I'm also sending Travis Yount's updated profile. He's low-probability, but I want eyes on his movements."
"Done. Keep her close, Knight."
I hung up and found Charlie at the counter, piecing fragments together like a jigsaw puzzle. Her jaw was set. Eyes dry. Focused.
"We should go through the suspect list again," she said. "Somebody just invested serious effort to scare me."
We sat at her kitchen table, case files spread between us, and she worked through it like the investigator she'd never admit she was.
"Walsh has the motive and the resources.
" She tapped his file. "But he's been making public appearances all week.
The comeback tour, the schmoozing, the Valentine's Ball prep.
Would a politician trying to rebuild his image risk this kind of exposure?
If anyone connected him to a harassment campaign against a journalist, his career's finished for good. "
"Unless the career is already finished," I said. "And he's playing for different stakes."
She considered that. Moved on. "Kiser's under federal surveillance. He's not making moves. Deb is —" She gestured vaguely. "You saw her. She could barely stand up at the gala, let alone coordinate a sustained intimidation campaign."
"Which leaves Travis."
"Travis can't afford his rent, let alone custom photo printing.
" She leaned back, chewing her bottom lip.
"But there's a piece I can't stop thinking about.
He showed up at my coffee shop three times after I ended things.
He made new social media accounts after I blocked him.
That's fixation, like you said. But fixation and resources are two different things. "
"So maybe we talk to him."
Her eyes sharpened. "You think that's smart?"
"I think we either clear him or we don't. Right now he's taking up space on the board, and we can't afford dead weight." I closed my laptop. "You know where he'd be on a Tuesday morning?"
"Grindstone Coffee on Elm. He goes every day before work. Has since we were together." She paused. "I know that because he told me six times. Not because I've been keeping tabs."
"Noted."
GRINDSTONE COFFEE WAS a narrow storefront between a dry cleaner and a nail salon. Scuffed wood floors, mismatched furniture, the smell of dark roast and cinnamon. Regulars claimed their spots with territorial devotion.
Travis Yount was by the window. I'd pulled his photo from social media, and the match was immediate: late twenties, thin, sandy hair that needed a cut, the hunched posture of someone who spent ten hours a day staring at a screen.
He had a laptop open, a half-finished latte at his elbow, and earbuds in. Unaware.
Charlie and I had agreed on the approach: she'd talk, I'd watch from across the room. Close enough to intervene, far enough not to spook him.
She walked up to his table. He pulled out one earbud, looked up, and his whole face changed. Surprise, then hope, naked, embarrassing hope that made my jaw tighten.
"Charlie." He stood up too fast, knocking his latte. "Hey. Wow. I didn't — how are you?"
"I'm fine, Travis."
"You look great. You always look great." He was smiling too wide, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, bouncing on his heels. "Do you want to sit? I can get you something. A cortado, right? You always ordered the cortado."
"I'm not staying."
The hope dimmed but didn't die. "Right. Yeah. Sure. It's just — I've been meaning to reach out. I know things ended weird between us, and I was hoping maybe you'd reconsidered —"