Chapter 10
Evie
The area behind my townhome looks exactly like it always does. Still, I scan the fence line several times before going downstairs. I didn’t sleep well. I know this because my dream journal is empty—just last night’s date and a blank space beneath it. If I dreamed, nothing made it through.
When I enter my kitchen, I’m greeted with the aroma of fresh coffee—and Gabe. He’s standing at my counter, freshly showered and dressed for the day in dark slacks and a button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair is still damp at the edges.
“Coffee in a mug or to-go thermos?”
His question rouses me from my momentary daze. I’ve never entered my kitchen before to discover Gabriel offering freshly made coffee. I could swear my heart rate kicks up at the sight—which is annoying.
“Umm, to go?” I say, not really meaning for it to sound like a question, but that’s exactly how it sounds.
Last night Gabe parked in my parking spot behind my townhome and he slept in the guest room. Him being in my kitchen shouldn’t fluster me in the least. Yet, I feel tongue-tied. Must be the lack of sleep.
He opens the cabinet with my to-go mugs on the first try. Which means he’s already been through my kitchen this morning, learning where things are, making himself at home.
The thought should bother me. It doesn’t—not really.
“What time did you get up?”
“Before you. Met your cat.” Atlas sits on the kitchen table watching us. “Not sure he’s a fan. Wouldn’t let me touch him.”
“He’s a stray. He’s cautious. If you give him time, he’ll warm up to you. Or at the very least, he won’t hide when you enter the house.”
He doctors my coffee—cream, no sugar—without asking. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush and goose bumps rise along my arms.
I pull back quickly.
It’s too early for this. I’m used to having my house to myself.
“Does your cat have a name?”
“Atlas.” As if recognizing his name, he hops off the table and leaves the room. “He’s not much of a snuggler. More of a hunter.”
“Do you have mice?”
“No,” I say with a grin. “I have a cat.”
“Hmm. If you’re ready, let’s head out.”
“You don’t have to drive me.”
“It’s not a problem.”
I doubt Alicia Morgan’s office is in the Capitol area, and if I’m correct, that would make it out of his way.
He opens the back door and holds it, expectantly. “Come on, Evie. Give me this.”
I exhale loudly, so he’s aware I’m not one hundred percent on board, lift my coat off the peg, and step through the threshold with a, “If driving me to work floats your boat, by all means.”
We listen to news on the drive—BBC then NPR—but I’m more aware of Gabe than the reports. The way he drives with both hands on the wheel. The way he occasionally glances at me then looks away.
When he pulls up to my building, I reach for the door handle, but he catches my wrist.
“Text me when you’re done.”
“That’s not necessary.” That’s what I say, even though it’s what I originally agreed to. I just feel ornery and raw—because this is feeling a lot like a security detail.
“Evie.” His thumb brushes my pulse point—accidental or deliberate, I can’t tell, but I feel it everywhere—from my toes to my scalp. “Let me do this.”
I pull the car door handle, grabbing my bag. “If it makes you feel better.”
“It does,” he says quietly, and I escape before the moment becomes any more awkward—or weird.
Safe on the other side of the windshield, I wiggle my fingers in a mini-wave before falling in line at the coffee cart, more out of habit than need. Leo doesn’t question the fact I’m holding a thermos. The coffee Gabe made is exactly how I like it, and in this mug, it will remain warm all morning.
I don’t know what puzzles me more—that he remembered how I take my coffee, or that he bothered to learn in the first place.
The bruises on my face aren’t as noticeable with concealer applied, but I still catch a few second glances. To avoid the curious gazes, I lose myself in email on my phone.
When I arrive in my office with two coffees, a greasy bagel, and about half my email sorted, I shift the mouse to wake up my monitor to commence work from my desktop.
My login flashes, and I tap out my information on the keyboard.
I freeze at the screen.
A case access audit log. Time stamp: 11:47 PM last night.
I wasn’t here last night. I was home. With Gabe.
Someone logged in as me.
My stomach drops, sharp and sudden. This isn’t just accessing the case—they became me. Using my credentials, my access, my identity to cover their tracks. I should flag this with IT. File a report. Create a paper trail. If I do, whoever is watching will know I saw it.
What did they do?
I open the case file.
At first glance, everything looks correct.
Then I see it. The secondary case tag—gone. The MLAT flag—removed.
Someone scrubbed this file. Made sure it won’t surface through cross-reference searches, won’t flag for international cooperation protocols.
This wasn’t a mistake. This was deliberate.
And they did it as me.
Did they do anything else?
I pull up the witness files, hands shaking slightly.
Lina’s still listed. But her status—
Status: Resolved. No further DOJ action required. Relocated: External custody. Last modified: 11:52 p.m.
She’s no longer a material witness. No longer our responsibility.
Someone logged in as me to erase her from the system.
My case should be dead. But someone else is still working it—and they’re working against me.
Chatter from the hallway draws my attention to my open office door. I cross the room to close it, return to my desk and pull up my chair.
Yesterday, Daniel mentioned the NGO. The phrasing in Lina’s status update—external custody—matches language I’ve seen exactly once before.
It’s not unusual for an NGO to partner with the DOJ. There’s nothing listed in the case directory, but I kept an internal contact list when working on the case. And I kept it on my notes app…which means there’s a good chance I’ve got the contact.
In my notes app, I have over a hundred files, but only two related to this case. One is random chaos, the other is contacts.
And boom. Twelve down. Astrid Berglund. Based in Switzerland. She works for GIHS. That’s all I wrote in my notes, but if memory serves that stands for the Geneva Initiative for Human Security. And while I don’t have her email, I do have her phone number.
I check the time. It’s still early here, but if Astrid is in Geneva, she should be in the office.
I dial, wait through the clicks, and a receptionist answers.
“May I speak with Astrid Berglund.”
“A moment please.”
While I wait, my screensaver engages.
“This is Astrid,” a crisp, slightly accented feminine voice answers.
“Hi Astrid. This is Evie Thompson from the United States Department of Justice. I’m trying to confirm whether a witness was transitioned into your care.”
“Evie Thompson. I remember you. We met last year. In New York.”
“Yes, that’s right. At the global symposium.” She’d been in an FBI briefing for an international task force, that’s why I put her name down on my contact list.
“Yes. Now, let’s see, a witness. We don’t usually accept transfers unless local protections fail.”
“I understand. That’s why I’m following up. Her transfer is noted in the case file and it might be in error. The name is Lina Morozova.”
Silence follows.
I hold my breath.
With the click of keys, I exhale.
“I cannot discuss details.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t want you to.”
“And you say you’re still with the DOJ?”
“I am. Yes.”
“The United States is no longer involved in this case.”
“Yes. I’m closing out the file.”
“It’s unfortunate when government partners withdraw support.”
That’s well-deserved censure if I’ve ever heard it.
Withdrawn support means no leverage. No accountability. No obligation to bring her home.
“Can you confirm she’s been relocated?”
Silence stretches. The kind that means she’s choosing her words carefully.
“She was my witness, Astrid. I need to know she’s safe.”
“I cannot confirm safe.” A pause. “Relocated? Yes. Expedited.”
The word sets off alarms. Expedited. You don’t expedite unless the threat is immediate. Unless time has already run out.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Three days. While I was chasing dead ends and dodging bullets, they were moving her.
There’s a hard rap on my office door, and Rebecca enters.
“Thank you so much for the information,” I say, rushing to end the call.
“We need to talk.” Rebecca doesn’t sit. Nor does she close the door. “I only have five minutes. How are you doing, Evie?”
The question is so out of character I hesitate to answer. Rebecca doesn’t do wellness checks.
“I’m fine.”
“HR flagged you yesterday. Working outside assignment scope, accessing closed cases, multiple after-hours logins.” She pauses. “I’ve requested a mandatory wellness evaluation.”
My stomach tightens. I glance past her, to the open door. “That’s not necessary—”
“It’s not a punishment.” But her tone says otherwise. “You’ve been under significant stress. The incident yesterday, the brake failure before that. HR thinks you need support.”
Support. That’s code for reined in.
The pieces click together. HR monitoring. The wellness check. The timing.
They want me sidelined.
If I tell Rebecca that last night it wasn’t me on my computer, I’ll only make things worse. They used my login credentials. She won’t believe me.
I push up from my desk, meeting Rebecca’s eyes. “I need personal leave.”
Rebecca blinks. For once, I’ve actually surprised her.
“Personal leave,” she repeats slowly.
“Yes. I need time. You’re right—I’ve been under stress. I need to step away.”
A long moment passes. Rebecca’s calculating something, and I can see the moment she decides this works in her favor.
“Alright. Transition your active cases to Harridan. Anything your team can handle, brief them. Two weeks for transition—”
“Effective immediately.”
Now she looks genuinely confused. “Evie—”
“You said if I need a mental health break, I should take it. I’m taking it. Today. I’ll brief my team. I’ll be reachable if they have questions. But I agree. I need the break and I appreciate your understanding and support.”
Rebecca’s expression hardens. “By end of day, then. Clear your desk.”
When she leaves, I sit down slowly, staring at the case file still open on my screen.
I just quit my job. Or something close to it.
And instead of panic, what I feel is relief. Clean and uncomplicated. Lina is overseas. Astrid confirmed it. I’m going. If I don’t, no one will.
I pull out my phone to text Gabe, then stop.
What do I tell him? That I’m leaving the country? That I made a unilateral decision—exactly the kind he’d argue against—and I need him to drive me to the airport?
I type: Need to talk tonight.
Delete it.
Try again: Can you pick me up at 5?
Better. Easier. I’ll tell him in person.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.