The personal concern in his voice makes my chest tight. Rodriguez is a good man and a good partner, but he's also harboring feelings for me that complicate everything, and tonight has stripped away too many illusions for me to keep lying to myself about this one.
"Thanks, Rodriguez. I appreciate that. But I think I need to handle this one alone."
"The hell you do. We're partners, Mariana. That means something."
Partners.The word makes me think of loyalty, of trust, of protection. Of dark eyes and whispered warnings about truth, lies, and everything that's wrong. About strong arms catching me when the world literally came crashing down.
And about the decisions I'll have to make, between everything I've believed to be true until now and what my gut is screaming at me.
"I know what it means," I tell him. "But Rodriguez? There are things about this case... things I need to figure out before I can trust anyone. Even you."
The hurt in his silence is audible. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means the Ghost case is bigger and more complicated than we thought. It means someone has been playing games with federal investigations for a very long time. And it means I don't know who to trust anymore."
"You can trust me."
Can I?The question bounces around my skull like a ricocheting bullet. Rodriguez has been my partner for three years. He's saved my life twice, backed my theories when everyone else thought I was going too far, supported my obsessive pursuit of a phantom killer.
But he's also a federal agent with access to case files and witness protection details. He's also a man with personal feelings that might cloud his professional judgment. And he's also someone who could have fed information to the wrong people, intentionally or not.
What if Rodriguez's feelings for me have made him protective in ways that compromise his judgment? What if someone has exploited those feelings to manipulate him? What if his attempts to keep me safe have actually been feeding information to people who want to destroy us both?
The thought makes my chest tight with guilt and paranoia in equal measure.
"I have to go," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow for the Harrison meeting."
"Mariana, wait—"
I hang up and immediately turn the phone to silent. Whatever Rodriguez wants to say, whatever reassurances he wants to offer, I'm not ready to hear them. Not when I'm standing in front of evidence that suggests the past two years of my professional life have been built on lies.
I turn back to the Ghost wall, seeing it with new eyes. Every photograph, every connection, every carefully constructed theory suddenly looks like amateur hour. Like I've been solving the wrong puzzle with pieces from different boxes.
What if he's right? What if the Ghost I've been hunting doesn't exist?
The thought is terrifying and liberating at the same time. Terrifying because it means my obsession has been pointless, my expertise worthless. Liberating because it means the man who saved my life tonight isn't the monster I thought he was.
The man who saved your life tonight is still a killer, Mariana.
Jesus. He had known about my investigation this whole time?
The idea hits me like a physical blow. What if every breakthrough I've had, every witness who decided to talk, every piece of evidence that mysteriously appeared in the right place at the right time - what if none of it was luck or skill?
What if it was a silver-haired guardian angel making sure I got close enough to the truth to be useful, but never close enough to be dangerous?
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. No caller ID, no trace information, just a message that makes my blood turn to ice water:
Little wolf - Your apartment isn't secure. Pack light, leave now, trust no one from the Bureau. If you want the truth about Viktor Orlov, meet me tomorrow night at Pier 17, 11 PM. Come alone. - MK
MK.The initials could be anyone, but somehow I know they're not. Somehow I know exactly who sent this message and why.
Mikhail. It has to be. A Russian name for a Russian phantom who speaks with an educated accent and moves like he was trained by professionals.
He's reaching out. Taking a risk to contact me directly. That either means he's desperate, or he trusts me more than I trust myself right now.
The question is whether I'm brave enough—or stupid enough—to follow instructions from a man who may be the most wanted criminal in New York.
Your apartment isn't secure.
