Page 86 of Override

"I've been doing my job."

"The hell you have." The words aren't angry. They're tired. "You drove across half the damn state because something didn't feel right."

I fold my arms across my chest. "I needed proof."

"You needed proof..." Callum nods slowly. "...or you needed to convince yourself you weren't imagining what was happening to her?"

I don't answer. Because I don't know. He studies me for another long moment. "Skee."

"What?"

"Look at me."

I do.

"Don't lose yourself in this."

I let out a humorless laugh. "A little late for that."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He sighs. "She's married."

"I know."

"And if Gallagher figures out someone is watching her—"

"I know." The words come out sharper than I mean them to.

Callum doesn't flinch. "If this turns personal, people get killed."

Silence. Because he's right. Because I know he's right. Because somewhere between the first clinic and the seventh...This stopped being surveillance.

Stopped being an assignment. Stopped being Callum asking me to look into a marriage. I think about Maeve curled up on the bathroom floor. About the excuses typed into chart after chart after chart. Kitchen accident. Fell down the stairs. Walked into a cabinet. Seven versions of the same lie.

I meet Callum's eyes again. "I don't know when it happened." The admission is quiet. Honest. "But every time I opened another chart..." I shake my head once. "...all I could think was that nobody was coming for her."

The office is silent. Callum exhales slowly. Then walks around the desk and rests a hand on my shoulder. "You found her."

I swallow hard. "Yeah."

Chapter 17

Maeve

The kitchen feels too quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows while I sit alone at the massive marble island picking at soup I’m no longer hungry enough to eat.

Taibhse’s soup.

The thought alone sends guilt twisting low through my stomach. I shouldn’t have brought it home. Shouldn’t have hidden the note inside my purse. Shouldn’t keep replaying the warmth in his strange awkward texts through my head like they matter.

And yet—my eyes keep drifting toward the clock anyway.

Ronan is late. Later than usual. The tension sitting beneath my ribs tightens another notch.

By the time the front door finally slams somewhere deeper in the estate, my pulse is already racing.