Chapter 13
JOLIE
Shasha, the bay manager, does not like being cornered, and the moment I step into her line of sight, the reaction flickers across her face before she can stop it.
The supply bay hums with low mechanical vibration, the kind that settles into the bones if you stand in it long enough, and the air carries the layered scent of heated metal, chemical sealant, and aging insulation that never quite loses its edge.
Workers move in the background with forced casualness, dragging crates across the floor with just enough noise to mask conversation, but not enough to hide tension.
She stills mid-entry on her tablet, her fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before she resumes motion like nothing happened.
“Lieutenant,” she says, her voice controlled, her posture tightening just slightly as she turns toward me.
“Shasha,” I reply, closing the distance with steady, deliberate steps that make it clear I am not here for a passing check-in. “You’ve got a minute.”
Her gaze drifts past me briefly, scanning the edges of the bay as if she is measuring who might overhear, then settles back on me with a guarded expression.
“I’m working,” she says.
“So am I,” I answer, letting my tone remain even while the meaning sharpens underneath it.
She exhales slowly and sets the tablet down with more care than necessary, aligning it against the crate as though precision might give her control over the conversation.
“That usually means trouble,” she says.
“It depends how honest you feel like being,” I reply.
The words land, and I see it in the tightening of her jaw, in the way her shoulders draw in just slightly as if bracing for something she already expects.
“I don’t like where this is going,” she says.
“Then help me steer it,” I answer.
She studies me, her eyes narrowing as something defensive settles behind them, and for a moment I can see the calculation happening in real time.
“This about the fence?” she asks.
“This is about Tury,” I say.
The name hits her harder than anything else I could have said, and she cannot quite hide it. Her shoulders tense, her breath catches just slightly before she smooths it out, and the controlled composure she tries to hold fractures at the edges.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she says quickly.
I step closer, lowering my voice so it does not carry beyond the immediate space, forcing the conversation into something more private and harder to escape.
“I didn’t ask what you know,” I say. “I asked what you saw.”
Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second, then snaps back up, sharper now.
“I didn’t see anything,” she insists.
“That’s not true,” I reply.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say, holding her gaze steady. “Because you reacted before I said his name.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough to become uncomfortable, and she does not fill it right away. Her fingers curl slightly against the edge of the crate beside her, the motion small but telling, and her breathing changes just enough to give her away.
“Shasha,” I say, quieter now, but more direct. “Whatever happened to him didn’t start at the fence. It started here, in places like this, where things move without being recorded.”
Her lips part like she is about to respond, but the words catch, and she looks away instead, her focus drifting toward the far end of the bay as if she could find an answer there.
“He wasn’t supposed to—” she begins, then cuts herself off, shaking her head.
I don’t interrupt her this time. I let the silence stretch again, let it press in until it forces her to either hold it or break it.
“He wasn’t acting right,” she says finally, her voice lower now, the resistance cracking.
“How?” I ask.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping just slightly as if the act of speaking costs her something.
“He wasn’t careless,” she says. “He wasn’t slipping or missing things. He was just… off. Like he was thinking about something else even when he was standing right in front of you.”
“That’s not enough to get someone flagged,” I say.
“No,” she agrees. “But asking the wrong questions is.”
“What kind of questions?” I press.
Her eyes flick back to mine, hesitation tightening her expression again, but not enough to stop her this time.
“He kept asking about routes,” she says. “Supply routes, patrol overlaps, timing gaps. He kept circling back to the same things like he was trying to map something out.”
My chest tightens slightly as the pattern aligns with everything we have already seen.
“That lines up,” I murmur.
“He wasn’t subtle about it either,” she continues, her voice gaining a little momentum now. “At first, it sounded like curiosity. Then it started sounding like he already knew part of the answer and was trying to confirm the rest.”
“What changed?” I ask.
She hesitates again, but this time the answer comes faster.
“He stopped joking,” she says.
I frown slightly, thrown by that.
“What?”
“Tury always joked,” she explains. “He’d crack something stupid even when things were tense, like he couldn’t stand the silence. But those last few shifts…” She trails off, shaking her head.
“He didn’t,” I finish.
She nods once.
“Not once,” she says. “And he kept checking behind him like he expected someone to be there.”
“That’s not paranoia,” I say.
“No,” she replies quietly. “It didn’t feel like it.”
“What did it feel like?” I ask.
Her gaze locks onto mine, steady now.
“Like he knew he’d already gone too far,” she says.
The words settle into my chest, heavy and sharp.
“Did he say anything to you?” I press.
She hesitates longer this time, her fingers tightening against the crate before she forces them to relax.
“He asked me if I’d ever noticed shipments that didn’t get logged properly,” she says.
I feel something shift deeper, something colder.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“I told him it happens,” she says. “That sometimes things get misfiled or systems don’t sync right. That it wasn’t unusual.”
“And he didn’t believe you.”
“No,” she says. “Not even a little.”
“What did he say?”
Her voice drops lower.
“He said mistakes don’t repeat that clean unless someone’s making them on purpose.”
I exhale slowly, the air feeling heavier now.
“That sounds like him,” I say.
“He wasn’t wrong,” she adds.
“No,” I agree. “He wasn’t.”
Silence settles between us again, thicker now, harder to move through.
“You need to stop asking about this,” Shasha says suddenly, her tone tightening again as the fear pushes back in. “Whatever you’re digging into, it’s not just going to sit there and wait for you to figure it out.”
“I’m aware,” I reply.
“No, you’re not,” she snaps, stepping closer, her voice dropping. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t still be standing here asking questions that could get both of us flagged.”
I hold her gaze, steady.
“He already got flagged,” I say. “And now he’s dead.”
Her expression falters again, just briefly.
“That’s exactly my point,” she says.
I don’t respond, because there is nothing I can say that makes that less true.
“Be careful,” she adds, quieter now. “You’re starting to sound like him.”
The words land heavier than anything else she has said.
“I’ll take that as a warning,” I reply.
“You should,” she says.
I step back, giving her space again, and this time she does not try to stop me.
—
The corridor outside the supply bay feels narrower than before, the air pressing in as I move through it, carrying the same stale mixture of heat and metal but with something heavier layered beneath it now.
I take the lower route instead of returning to the surface, letting the dimmer lighting and uneven crackle of the systems ground me as I move through the maintenance corridors.
He is already there when I reach the meeting point, exactly where I expect him to be.
Hrask leans against the wall near the junction, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp, his gaze snapping to me the second I step into view.
“Well?” he asks.
I don’t answer immediately. I close the distance first, stepping into his space until the gap between us narrows to something that feels intentional, something that makes the air shift.
“He knew,” I say.
His expression sharpens.
“Knew what?” he asks.
“That something was off before he got flagged,” I reply. “He was tracking patterns. Routes. Gaps. The same things we’re seeing now.”
Hrask’s jaw tightens slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
“He asked about unlogged shipments,” I continue, keeping my voice low. “He thought the inconsistencies were deliberate.”
A subtle shift runs through him, tension tightening in his shoulders.
“That’s not small,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “It’s not.”
We stand there in close proximity, the space between us charged in a way that has nothing to do with the corridor.
“He was acting different too,” I add. “Distracted. Watching everything like he expected something to happen.”
Hrask exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says. “That part makes sense.”
“It shouldn’t,” I reply. “Not unless he already knew he was in danger.”
“No,” he agrees. “It shouldn’t.”
Silence settles again, but it feels heavier now.
“You’re closer,” he says.
“So are you,” I shoot back.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
He steps closer, closing what little space remains, and I feel the shift immediately.
“Then what do you think he found?” he asks.
“I think he found proof,” I reply. “Something concrete enough that it stopped being theory.”
“And got him killed,” Hrask says.
“Yes.”
The word lands between us, heavier than anything else.
“You’re pushing harder,” he says.
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” I ask.
“Because I know what happens when this goes bad,” he says.
“And I don’t?” I fire back.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me.
“I think you don’t care if it does,” he says.
“That’s not even close,” I reply, my voice tightening.
“Then what is it?” he presses.
I step closer, refusing to give ground.
“It’s about finishing it,” I say. “Not backing off because it gets uncomfortable.”
His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again.
“This isn’t just uncomfortable,” he says. “This is dangerous.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he asks, his voice lower now.
“Yes,” I say.
The tension tightens further, pulling the space between us into something sharp and fragile.
“You pull back now,” he says, “and you still walk away.”
“No,” I reply. “I don’t.”
He watches me, something shifting behind his eyes.
“You’re not going to stop,” he says.
“No.”
He exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
Something changes again, deeper this time, heavier.
I feel it before I react.
So I step back.
I force distance where it didn’t exist a second ago, breaking the line between us before it turns into something else.
“We move next shift,” I say, steady again. “We follow the routes he was tracking.”
Hrask watches me, his gaze lingering.
“Yeah,” he says. “We do.”
I turn, starting back down the corridor.
“Jolie,” he calls.
I stop, but I don’t turn fully.
“What?” I ask.
“You keep getting that close,” he says, his voice lower now, edged with something I can’t ignore, “and one of these times you’re not going to pull back.”
The words hit, sharp and deliberate.
I glance over my shoulder.
“Then I’ll make sure I do,” I reply.
His expression darkens, something almost like a challenge settling in.
“Sure you will,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I just walk.