Luca isn't here.
I don't ask where he went. I don't care where he went.
I tell myself that twice and almost believe it.
Inside is worse than outside.High ceilings. Dark wood. Furniture that probably costs more than my first year of med school. I find the kitchen on my own — at the back of the main floor, with marble countertops and appliances that have never seen an actual meal.
I run the tap. Drink two full glasses of water standing at the sink because I've had nothing since a vending machine coffee at 6 p.m., and my body is filing a formal complaint.
I count cameras while I drink.
Three in the main hall. Two in the kitchen. One above the back door, angled to catch the alley.
I'm still cataloging the living room when the front door opens.
I spin. Hand flat on the counter. Body already braced.
Luca fills the frame.
No tie now. Jacket still on, but the collar button undone, and there's something different in the set of his shoulders. Tighter. Like whatever he was doing in that car wound him up instead of down.
His eyes find me immediately. Cross the room and land like he already knew exactly where I'd be.
"You're still up."
"It's past 2 a.m., and I'm in a stranger's house." I set my water glass down. "Where did you go?"
"I had business."
"At 2 a.m."
"I always have business." He crosses the room without stopping, without offering an explanation. "I'll show you upstairs."
I follow him because the alternative is standing in the kitchen alone, and I'd rather be annoyed at him directly than at the general concept of him.
I count four more cameras on the way up.
"Guest suite."He opens a door at the end of the hall. King bed, original artwork, en suite bathroom with heated tile. Fresh flowers on the dresser.
Someone put flowers in here. In the kidnapping room.
Before I can settle in, Luca turns in the doorway.
"The drive." Not a question.
I look at him. He looks at me. The gym bag is still on my shoulder, and we both know what's in it.
"It stays with me."
"It stays in this building. With my tech specialist." His voice is even. Patient. The patience of a man who will wait exactly as long as he needs to and not one second longer. "Whatever's on it, we need to know. And you need to not be the only person carrying it when the next team comes through a door."
He's not wrong.
I hate that he's not wrong.
I pull the drive from the gym bag's inner pocket. Hold it between two fingers. This tiny piece of metal that got a man killed and turned my life inside out in under an hour.
"If anything happens to this?—"
