Page 20 of What Comes Around

“I need everything you can find on Elena Brooks. Timeline. Digital traces. Financial records. Anything that doesn’t fit.”

Then I added:

“I think Marissa knows more than she’s saying.”

I stared at the screen for a second before locking it.

Amy would find Elena.

Or she would find what happened to her.

Chapter 7: You Do Not Touch My Employees

The days blurred together until one afternoon Detective Harris from the Financial Crimes Unit called me.

“I’m calling with a brief update regarding your identity theft report,” he said.

“Just a second.” I stepped into an empty conference room and closed the door behind me.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“We contacted the issuing bank,” he said. “They confirmed the application originated from an IP address outside your residence and from a device not registered to you. We have issued a preservation request for their internal logs.”

“And Apple?” I asked.

“We requested Ms. Richards come in for voluntary questioning. Her attorney responded. She’s apparently very busy. The first available date is next month, so the interview is scheduled then.”

I absorbed that quietly.

“This process takes time,” he added.

“I understand.”

“We’ll update you once we receive further documentation.”

“Thank you.”

I ended the call feeling strangely calm.

Knox, however, had not been calm all day.

One contractor had just admitted they couldn’t meet structural reinforcement standards without pushing the timeline back six months. Knox hated delays. The entire floor had been walking on eggshells since morning.

He stopped by my desk late in the afternoon.

“I need the revised risk analysis tonight,” he said. “I want it clean. I want it fast.”

“You’ll have it,” I replied.

So I stayed.

By the time the sun dipped low enough to turn the windows dark, most of the office had cleared out. The floor was quiet except for the low hum of the building and the soft tap of my keyboard.

I was deep in projections, trimming assumptions, tightening margins, when the sound cut through the silence.

The elevator dinged, and I glanced up instinctively as the doors opened and a woman stepped out. Something about her looked familiar.

She wore a brown trench coat tied neatly at the waist, the hem brushing mid‑thigh. A short blonde bob of loose curls bounced with each step, catching the light. Her blue eyes were bright under the overheads, and her black Louboutins clicked sharply against the polished floor.