Page 221 of Override

Not angry. Confused. "So why spend fifteen years building something that wasn't real?"

Matt didn't answer immediately. "Because he didn't need to become more powerful than you. He only needed to convince everyone else that he already was."

The room had gone quiet. "We believe he spent the better part of fifteen years creating the identity of the man worthy of marrying Maeve."

Not because he loved her. Because he loved everything surrounding her. The influence. The access. The status. The security.

Matt had folded his hands together. "I don't think Ronan wanted to destroy your family."

His eyes had drifted toward the office door where Maeve was sitting with Rachel and her mother. "I think he wanted to belong to it."

The memory fades as I stop at a red light.

Beside me, Maeve rests her forehead against the passenger window. She's exhausted. Understandably. She should probably sleep for the next three days. Instead she's still awake. Still watching the world pass by.

My fingers tap once against the steering wheel. The rhythm settles my thoughts. For now.

My apartment isn't far. It isn't much. Functional. Organized. Quiet.

Now...I find myself wondering if I should've bought groceries.

****

The elevator climbs the two floors, the quiet hum filling the space between us.

I glance toward her just as the doors slide open. "My apartment's this way."

She simply nods and follows.

The familiar weight of my keys settles into my palm as I unlock the door. For a second, I hesitate. It's an unfamiliar feeling. Grayline has been here. Matt has. Wheels has walked in without knocking more times than I can count despite repeatedly being told the purpose of a lock. Rachel occasionally appears with food because she's decided protein bars don't qualify as meals.

Maeve is different.

This isn't a teammate stopping by.

This is someone I'm inviting inside.

The deadbolt clicks open, and I step back, holding the door for her.

"After you."

She crosses the threshold slowly, not because she's hesitant, but because she's looking. Really looking. Her eyes travel from the bookshelf to the kitchen, over the couch, the framed photographs on the wall, the stack of records beside the turntable. She isn't searching for danger anymore.

"I don't know why," she says quietly, "but this is exactly what I imagined your apartment would look like."

I glance around the room. "I clean every Saturday."

A smile tugs at her lips. "I wasn't talking about that."

"You were probably talking about the fact that every book is organized alphabetically."

"I was."

"And by subject."

"I noticed."

"And publication date."