Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“You’re already up,” she says.
I turn then. She’s standing in the doorway, barefoot and wrapped in nothing but one of my shirts.
She looks fucking delectable.
She glances past me to the system and then back. “You didn’t wake me.”
“You needed the sleep.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I don’t need it.” I clear my throat. “If you’re sore, a warm bath with Epsom salts will help.”
She smiles. “I’m fine.” She steps closer.
My body reacts before my mind does.
She stops within reach. Close enough that I can see the exact moment her gaze shifts from my face to the dark monitors and back.
“You found something,” she says.
I don’t reply.
“You’re doing it again,” she says. “That thing you do.”
Not this again. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”
She steps closer. “You go still. Like you’ve already made a decision you’re not telling me about.”
She’s not wrong. That doesn’t mean I’ll confirm it. “I’m thinking,” I say.
“No,” she says. “You’re editing. You’re deciding how much to tell me. Just enough so you’re not lying but not enough that you’re telling the whole truth.”
I hold her gaze. “You want everything in real time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is if I’m part of it.”
“That doesn’t mean you get every piece the second I see it.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t trust what it means yet.
Because I don’t trust what I’ll do with it.
“Because not everything is ready to be used,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Another one of your non-answers.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Then—
“Right.” She steps away. “You don’t trust me.”
Her tone isn’t loud or emotional. That makes it worse.
“This isn’t about trust.”
“Then what is it about?”
I rise and step toward her. Close the distance she created. “It’s about timing.”
“Then you’d better figure out the right time”—she pauses a moment—“before I do.”
She turns and walks out of the room. I hear her shuffle back up the stairs.
I stand there for a second longer than I should. Then I bring the system back up just long enough to look at the data again.
At the pathways.
At the structure.
At the name I didn’t say.
Nathaniel.
This just got worse.
Not outside.
Inside.
And I’m the one who made it that way.
42
DELANEY
I don’t go back to him.
Not right away.
I feel him behind me as I leave the room. The weight of his attention. The pull of it.
I ignore it.
I have to.
Because if I turn back I won’t be thinking clearly. And right now, thinking clearly is the only thing I have.
I walk into the main room and stop. The place is so quiet.
Like nothing happened here.
Like we didn’t just—
I cut the thought off.
I wish I had my notes. My folders. But I do have my phone, and all the information on my laptop and iPad is on my cell as well.
I go upstairs, take a quick shower—not in Samson’s bedroom but in the guest room—and find a soft robe to pull on over my underwear.
Then I grab my phone.
Crap, it’s nearly dead. I scour the guest suite, looking for a charger. Yes! I find one in the nightstand drawer. I plug it in, connect my phone, and then sit on the lush bed as I pull up the information I have.
Halstead.
I keep my feelings neutral as I read the name. That’s how it has to stay.
I look through the information I have. God, I know most of it by heart now. And I don’t see anything that—
I stop at a photo attached to a report. I don’t remember putting it there, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been moving fast. Collecting and sorting. Not everything stays where I left it.
I zoom in.
It’s the marina at night, grainy and distorted, clearly pulled from a security capture.
It shows the dock. The water. And two figures. They’re not close to the edge. Not yet. No sign of anyone else yet.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Because something about it—
No.
I shift my focus.
The closer figure could be Halstead. His position matches what Samson said.
The second figure is harder to make out.
Smaller, maybe. Narrower through the shoulders. Turned slightly away, as if already leaving.
I tighten my grip on the phone and stare at the image.
The second figure turns just enough that the light catches something near the throat.
A reflection.
Small, and split into two faint points.
The image is too blurry to prove anything. It could be a zipper pull. A button. A trick of the marina lights on wet fabric.
But my hand goes to my own throat before I can stop it.
I close my fingers around my pendant.
The scales.
Mine is silver.
My mother’s was gold.
No.
I don’t move.
Don’t blink.
Just stare.
Because if I look away, I might lose it.
Or worse, I might have to admit what I’m seeing.
The recognition sits just under the surface. Close enough to feel but not close enough to name, like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue.
Someone was with him before the confrontation.