Chapter Four - Diana
Stop digging.
No sender name. The address is a string of random characters followed by a domain I don’t recognize—something masked, routed through servers designed to hide origin points. My thumb hovers over the message, adrenaline sharpening my focus, and I tap it open.
I try to open it. The screen loads for three seconds, then returns an error message. File corrupted or encrypted. Cannot display.
My hands are shaking. I set the phone down on the nightstand and force myself to breathe slowly, counting to five on the inhale and seven on the exhale the way my therapist taught me after Ethan died.
It doesn’t help. My pulse is hammering, my mind racing through possibilities that all land in the same place.
Someone knows I accessed Ethan’s files. Someone knows what I found. And they’re warning me to stop before—
Before what?
I don’t sleep the rest of the night. I lie in bed with the lights on, staring at the ceiling and replaying every decision I made over the weekend.
By the time morning light filters through the blinds, I’ve convinced myself it’s a scare tactic. Someone trying to rattle me into backing off. It worked, but I’m not stopping.
***
Work feels surreal. I sit through a client meeting about Q4 advertising spend allocations, nodding at the right moments and taking notes I won’t remember later.
My colleague Jenna asks if I’m okay during the coffee break; apparently I look exhausted.
I tell her I didn’t sleep well and leave it at that.
By 3:00 p.m., I can’t focus anymore. I pack up early, citing a headache, and drive home through traffic that feels heavier than usual.
Every car behind me stays there too long.
Every turn I make gets mirrored two vehicles back.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but I take an extra loop around my block before pulling into the parking lot.
The apartment building looks the same as always: worn brick facade, fire escape zigzagging up the east side, a handful of residents coming and going through the main entrance. I grab my bag and head inside, keys already in hand.
The elevator smells faintly of cleaning solution and someone’s leftover takeout. I ride it to the third floor, step into the hallway, and stop.
My door is open.
I know I locked it this morning. I check twice every time I leave, a habit Ethan drilled into me after I got my first apartment.
I remember doing it today.
My stomach drops. I pull my phone out with trembling fingers and consider calling 911, but the thought stalls halfway. If this is connected to Ethan’s investigation—if someone broke in because of what I found—the police won’t help. They’ll take a report, file it under routine burglary, and move on.
If the people watching me have connections inside law enforcement, calling for help might make things worse.
I push the door open slowly, listening for movement inside.
Nothing.
The apartment is silent and still, exactly how I left it this morning except for the door. I step inside cautiously, scanning the living room for signs of disturbance. My laptop is closed on the coffee table where I left it. The couch cushions are undisturbed. The TV remote sits in its usual spot.
Everything looks normal until I glance toward the kitchen.
Ethan’s banker box—the one I’d shoved under my desk yesterday after going through the files—is sitting on the kitchen counter. Lid slightly open, papers visible inside.
I didn’t put it there.
The realization hits cold and sharp. Someone was in here. Someone moved the box deliberately, positioned it where I’d see it immediately, left the lid open so I’d know they’d touched it.
I check the rest of the apartment with my pulse roaring in my ears. Bedroom: untouched. Bathroom: same. Closet: nothing missing. The laptop is still on the coffee tablemy tablet still in the drawer. Whoever came in wasn’t looking to steal.
They were reminding me they could.
I grab my laptop and open the activity logs, scrolling through timestamps with shaking hands. Two failed login attempts while I was at work—one at 11:34 a.m., another at 11:41 a.m. Both from this device, local access, no remote connection.
Someone sat in my apartment and tried to unlock my computer.
I call the building manager, a man named Rick who’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive. He answers on the third ring, sounding distracted.
“Rick, it’s Diana Clarke in 3B. Did maintenance come into my unit today?”
“Maintenance? No, we didn’t have any work orders for your floor.”
“Are you sure? My door was unlocked when I got home.”
His tone shifts slightly, concern bleeding through. “You sure you locked it this morning?”
“Positive.”
“Huh. Well, I can check the logs, but I don’t think anyone from our team went in there. You want me to call the police?”
I hesitate, the offer hanging in the air between us. “No. Just… can you confirm no one had access?”
“I’ll check and call you back.”
He doesn’t call back.
By 9:00 p.m., I’ve installed a small wireless camera I ordered online months ago and never bothered setting up. It’s positioned on the bookshelf with a clear view of the living room and front door. The feed routes to my phone, motion-activated, cloud storage encrypted.
I double-lock the door—deadbolt and chain—and shove a chair under the handle for good measure. I check the windows twice, making sure the latches are secure. I leave the lights on in the living room and hallway, shadows too threatening to tolerate tonight.
Sleep doesn’t come. I lie in bed fully dressed, phone within arm’s reach, every small sound from the hallway or neighboring apartments sending my pulse spiking.
Someone knows where I live. They’ve been inside, and they’ve touched my things, gone through Ethan’s files, tried to access my computer.
They want me to know they can reach me whenever they want.
***
Morning feels fragile and unreal. I shower quickly, dress in jeans and a sweater, and decide I can’t stay in the apartment another minute. The walls feel too close, the silence too heavy.
I grab my bag and head to the café two blocks away—the same one I’ve been going to for three years, the place where the barista knows my order before I reach the counter. Routine feels safer than staying home.
The walk is brisk, cold air biting through my sweater. I keep my head down and my pace quick, scanning the street peripherally for anyone who might be following. A few other pedestrians move past me, absorbed in their phones or morning commutes, none of them paying attention.
The café is warm and smells like roasted coffee and baked goods. I order my usual almond latte and take it to the corner table near the window, the spot where the light is good and I can see the door.
I pull out my laptop and try to focus on work emails, but my attention keeps drifting. Everything points to the same conclusion: I’m being watched. Actively. Deliberately.
Whoever’s doing it wants me scared enough to stop.
I’m halfway through composing a response to a client when the awareness hits—subtle and visceral, the prickling sensation of being observed. I glance up from the screen and scan the café.
He’s sitting three tables away, phone in hand, sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that manages to look both casual and intentional. He has pale eyes and the same controlled posture I remember from the gala hallway.
Felix Rudenko.
Recognition slams into me with enough force that I forget to breathe for a second. It’s him. Same angular face, same unreadable expression, same presence that seems to command attention without effort.
He’s here. In my neighborhood café, two blocks from my apartment.
Coincidence feels impossible.
Our eyes meet across the space, and something shifts in his expression—acknowledgment, maybe, or calculation. He sets his phone down and stands, moving toward my table with the kind of easy confidence that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.
My pulse spikes. I consider leaving, grabbing my bag and walking out before he reaches me, but my legs won’t cooperate. I’m frozen, watching him approach with the same inevitability I felt in that hallway.
He stops beside my table, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
His tone is smooth, controlled, carrying the same undertone I remember—something dangerous wrapped in civility. I force myself to keep my expression neutral, guarded.
“Small world,” I say, though my voice comes out thinner than I’d like.
“Apparently.” He gestures toward the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I sit?”
It’s phrased as a question, but it doesn’t feel optional. I nod, not trusting my voice, and he settles into the chair with a kind of deliberate ease that makes the space feel smaller.
He’s too close again. Not touching me, not invading my physical space, but occupying it in a way that makes the air feel heavier. I’m hyperaware of him—the way his hands rest on the table, the faint scent of something expensive and clean, the paleness of his eyes tracking my every microexpression.
“You look tired,” he says, and there’s something almost conversational about it, except for the weight beneath the words.
“It’s been a long week.”
“I imagine.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional. “You work in campaign finance compliance, right? Must keep you busy.”
“It does.” I wrap my hands around the coffee cup, grounding myself in the warmth. “What brings you to Brooklyn on a Tuesday morning?”
“Meeting nearby.” He leans back slightly, the motion casual but his gaze never leaving mine. “Thought I’d grab coffee before heading back.”
The lie is smooth, practiced. I don’t believe it for a second.
We sit in tense silence for a moment, the café noise filling the space between us—espresso machines hissing, low conversations blending into background hum. He doesn’t break eye contact. Neither do I.
“You handled Whitmore well the other night,” he says eventually. “Not many people challenge donors that publicly.”
“Someone has to care about accountability.”
“Dangerous habit.” His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “Especially when you’re dealing with people who prefer things stay quiet.”
The warning is implicit, wrapped in casual observation. My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not afraid of asking questions.”
“I noticed.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that feels invasive and uncomfortably intimate. “There’s a difference between asking questions and digging into places you’re not supposed to reach.”
The heat at my back from the gala returns, sharper now.
“I’m careful,” I say, though the words feel hollow.
“Are you?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I’m not ready to unpack. He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table, and the space compresses further.
“You should be more careful,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “There are people who don’t appreciate curiosity. Especially when it involves things that aren’t your concern.”
“You’re warning me out of the goodness of your heart?”
His eyes darken slightly, something shifting beneath the controlled surface. “I’m reminding you that not everyone plays fair.”
I force myself to hold his gaze, refusing to let him see how rattled I am. “Noted.”
He watches me for another long moment, then stands smoothly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “Take care of yourself, Diana.”
The use of my name sends a chill down my spine. I didn’t tell him what it was.
He leaves without looking back, moving through the café and out onto the street with the same controlled precision he brought in. I watch him disappear around the corner, my hands trembling around the coffee cup.
I pack up my laptop with shaking hands and leave the café quickly, the morning light feeling too bright and exposed. The walk back to my apartment is frantic, every shadow suspect, every passing car a potential threat.
When I reach my building, I glance back over my shoulder and scan the street.
He’s gone.