CHAPTER 56
GAbrIEL
◆
Marriage did not cure fear.
Six months after the wedding, Helena missed a check-in from Porto Azul, and every old instinct returned fully dressed.
She had traveled there to investigate a port contractor tied to smuggling and public-housing fraud. My home confinement prevented me from leaving Costa Clara. Mara was no longer my employee and had made it clear that friendship did not include unauthorized surveillance.
Helena’s last message had arrived at four thirty.
INTERVIEW RUNNING LATE. PHONE LOW. EAT WITHOUT ME.
At seven, the message remained unread when I replied.
At eight, a storm cut power along the coast.
At eight fifteen, I opened the laptop.
The old Bastion part of my mind built the search before my hands moved. Traffic cameras. Hotel records.
Vehicle pings. Port access logs. All reachable through people who still owed me favors.
I looked at the screen.
Then I closed it.
Fear did not become permission because I could make it technical.
I called Sofia.
“Have you heard from her?”
“No.”
“Is the interview source reliable?”
“Reliable enough to lie professionally.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“She has a local photographer, a driver, and a lawyer waiting at the hotel. She chose the plan.”
I stared through the open kitchen doors at the storm.
“Do you want me to call them?” Sofia asked.
The question gave me a clean choice.
“Call the lawyer because you are her editor,” I said. “Do not locate her for me. Tell me only whether the reporting team is safe.”
“Look at you using nouns correctly.”
“Sofia.”
“Calling now.”
Five minutes later, she returned.
“The team left the port before the storm. Their car is delayed by flooding. Everyone is safe. Helena’s phone died. She told the lawyer she would call you from the hotel landline.”
My lungs released.
“Thank you.”
“You did not track her.”
“No.”
“Do you need praise?”
“Desperately.”
“I will send a sticker.”
The call ended.
I cooked dinner badly.
The cheese pastries came out uneven, with three burnt edges Helena would claim not to prefer. I left the kitchen doors open and waited without turning waiting into an operation.
At nine twelve, the landline rang.
“Salles-Duarte residence,” I answered.
“That name is unconstitutional,” Helena said.
Relief weakened my knees.
“You are safe.”
“Wet, hungry, and furious with regional drainage policy. Safe.”
“Sofia confirmed the team.”
“You called Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“Did you call Mara?”
“No.”
“Did you open a camera system?”
“I opened the laptop. Then closed it.”
Silence.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
I told her the truth. Every thought.
Every available favor. The exact second fear began dressing itself as necessity.
She listened.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For almost doing the wrong thing?”
“For letting almost remain almost.”
I sat at the kitchen table.
“I hated not knowing.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to come get you.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“The road opens at dawn. I will be home by breakfast.”
Home.
The word worked better than reassurance.
“I made pastries,” I said.
“Burnt edges?”
“Three.”
“Protect them with your life.”
“Finally, a reasonable security instruction.”
She laughed across the dead storm lines.
The next morning, her car entered the garden at seven forty.
I stayed inside the federal boundary.
Helena got out before the driver fully stopped and ran toward me. I met her at the open door.
She threw both arms around my neck.
“You waited,” she said.
“Badly.”
“Still counts.”
I held her without asking where she had been first.
Over her shoulder, the monitor on my ankle flashed green.
My phone chimed.
A federal notice filled the screen.
EXEMPLARY COMPLIANCE REVIEW APPROVED.
HOME CONFINEMENT TERMINATION HEARING SCHEDULED.