“Understood. What do we do if she moves to publish?”
I hesitate, the pause stretching too long. “Then we intervene,” I say finally. “But not before.”
I end the call before he can ask follow-up questions I don’t have answers for.
The surveillance feed remains open on my screen, her apartment window glowing softly against the darkening skyline.
I tell myself this is containment. Strategic patience. Operational discipline.
The truth is simpler and more dangerous: I’m not ready to let her go.
Chapter Four - Diana
The email arrives at 3:17 a.m., the notification pulling me out of shallow sleep into the blue glow of my phone screen. I blink against the brightness, disoriented, and read the subject line twice before my brain processes it fully.
Stop digging.
No sender name. The address is a string of random characters followed by a domain I don’t recognize—something masked, routed through servers designed to hide origin points. My thumb hovers over the message, adrenaline sharpening my focus, and I tap it open.
The body is empty. There’s only a single attachment with a file name that’s nothing but numbers: 84762.enc.
I try to open it. The screen loads for three seconds, then returns an error message.File corrupted or encrypted. Cannot display.
My hands are shaking. I set the phone down on the nightstand and force myself to breathe slowly, counting to five on the inhale and seven on the exhale the way my therapist taught me after Ethan died. It doesn’t help. My pulse is hammering, my mind racing through possibilities that all land in the same place.
Someone knows I accessed Ethan’s files. Someone knows what I found. And they’re warning me to stop before—
Before what?
I don’t sleep the rest of the night. I lie in bed with the lights on, staring at the ceiling and replaying every decision I made over the weekend.
By the time morning light filters through the blinds, I’ve convinced myself it’s a scare tactic. Someone trying to rattle me into backing off. It worked, but I’m not stopping.
***
Work feels surreal. I sit through a client meeting about Q4 advertising spend allocations, nodding at the right moments and taking notes I won’t remember later. My colleague Jenna asks if I’m okay during the coffee break; apparently I look exhausted. I tell her I didn’t sleep well and leave it at that.
By 3:00 p.m., I can’t focus anymore. I pack up early, citing a headache, and drive home through traffic that feels heavier than usual. Every car behind me stays there too long. Every turn I make gets mirrored two vehicles back. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but I take an extra loop around my block before pulling into the parking lot.
The apartment building looks the same as always: worn brick facade, fire escape zigzagging up the east side, a handful of residents coming and going through the main entrance. I grab my bag and head inside, keys already in hand.
The elevator smells faintly of cleaning solution and someone’s leftover takeout. I ride it to the third floor, step into the hallway, and stop.
My door is open.
I know I locked it this morning. I check twice every time I leave, a habit Ethan drilled into me after I got my first apartment.
I remember doing it today.
My stomach drops. I pull my phone out with trembling fingers and consider calling 911, but the thought stalls halfway. If this is connected to Ethan’s investigation—if someone brokein because of what I found—the police won’t help. They’ll take a report, file it under routine burglary, and move on.
If the people watching me have connections inside law enforcement, calling for help might make things worse.
I push the door open slowly, listening for movement inside.
Nothing.
The apartment is silent and still, exactly how I left it this morning except for the door. I step inside cautiously, scanning the living room for signs of disturbance. My laptop is closed on the coffee table where I left it. The couch cushions are undisturbed. The TV remote sits in its usual spot.
