I added three new names today.
The first was a buyer—a man in Miami who'd purchased Institute-trained women for his private collection. I'd found his name in the dispatcher's messages, buried in a thread about "special orders" and "premium assets."
Mathew Thorne.
Real estate developer.
Married, two children, active in his church.
He'd bought four women in the past two years.
I pinned his photo to the wall and drew a line to Mercy Logistics.
The second name was a handler—a woman who'd worked for the Institute as a "conditioning assistant," helping Gabriel refine his methods. I'd found her through a contact in Mercy Logistics, a low-level employee who'd traded information for a quick death.
Dr. Heather King.
The third name was a location—a facility outside Prague that specialized in "behavioral modification." I'd found it in the dispatcher's files, listed as a destination for "assets requiring additional conditioning."
The Petrova Clinic.
Run by a woman named Dr. Lina Petrova.
Former colleague of Gabriel's.
Former friend.
Former something else.
I pinned the address to the wall and drew a line to Mercy Logistics, to the warehouse, to the office where I'd killed the guard who'd watched Gabriel work.
The web was growing.
Every thread led somewhere.
Every somewhere led closer to the truth.
The knock on the door was soft.
I knew it was Matt before I looked. He was the only one who visited, the only one who knew where I lived, the only one who cared whether I ate or slept or remembered to drink water.
"Bunny? You in there?"
"Yes."
"You eat today?"
"I..."
I couldn't remember.
"I'll take that as a no."
The door opened. Matt stepped inside, carrying a grocery bag and a paper sack that smelled like warm bread. He looked around the apartment the way he always did—his eyes moving across the wall, the bed, the dishes in the sink—but he didn't comment. He never commented.
"I brought soup. And bread. And some fruit."
"You don't have to."
