Page 5 of You, Only You

"It sounds pretentious when I say it out loud," she admitted, laughing.

"It sounds like you're good at your job."

"Flattery. You must really be stressed."

We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about her therapy, "Margaret doesn't let me spiral, she just redirects me, it's annoying and effective," and the basil plant on her balcony that she was determined to keep alive despite what she called her "agricultural incompetence." I told her about a case I wasworking on, the sanitized version, the parts that wouldn't keep her up at night.

"I should let you go," she said finally. "But Will?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever this audit is... don't lose yourself in it. You do that sometimes. Get so focused on the threat that you forget there are other ways to exist."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Her voice was gentle. "I love you. Be careful. And not just with the audit."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down slowly, her words settling into the silence like stones into still water.Don't lose yourself in it.She meant well. She always meant well. But the man I'd been before all this, trusting, optimistic, that man couldn't protect anyone. The one I'd become could.

Seven years since Vance cornered Nicole in his office after a late seminar. Seven years since the university had closed ranks, since the police had cited "insufficient evidence," since the system had offered platitudes and protection for the wrong person. Nicole had fled to Oregon. I had stayed, and I had transformed. I became the consequence the system was too broken to provide.

I glanced back at the monitor. Lindsey was still there, still working, still hunting.

Two predators in the same territory,I thought.This can only end one way.

The next morning, I arrived at the office an hour earlier than usual. I needed to review the Harrington documents before she got to them. The coffee in my private washroom was perfectly adequate, but the stronger blend in the main break room was superior.

I pushed through the break room door and she was already there, standing at the counter, scooping grounds into a paper filter. She looked up as I entered, her green eyes registering my presence with no surprise, no nervousness. Just that cool, watchful acknowledgment that made me feel like a specimen under glass.

"Mr. Steele." Her voice was neutral. Professionally pleasant. Giving nothing away.

"Ms. Ashford." I moved to the sink, cleaning my mug with water, aware of the six feet of space between us in a way that was disproportionate to the situation. "You're here early."

"The files are extensive." She turned back to the coffee maker, her movements unhurried. "I like to get a head start."

"Dedication. Admirable."

"Or obsession. Depending on your perspective."

The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the silence with its mundane bubbling. I dried the mug and found myself noting details that had no operational relevance. The fine hairs that had escaped her bun. The shadows under her eyes. She'd worked late, probably as late as I had. Her blazer was a different shade of gray today, but the effect was the same: composed. Impenetrable.

"Making progress?" I asked.

"Methodically." Her gaze stayed fixed on the dripping coffee. "Your filing system is impressive. Very... comprehensive."

"Thorough documentation protects everyone."

"Or hides everything." She said it lightly, almost casually, but the words landed like a sharp strike to my charade.

"That's a serious accusation."

"It's an observation." She finally turned to face me, leaning one hip against the counter with a posture that was almost relaxed. Almost. "I've found that the most meticulous recordsusually belong to people who have the most to organize. Or the most to obscure."

"And which do you think applies to me?"

"I haven't decided yet." Her eyes met mine, steady and unafraid. "That's what the audit is for."