Page 55 of Fatal Pattern

She laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m thorough. Brother or not, your stalker knows where you live, knows your schedule, knows how to bypass your security system. He’s escalated from watching to breaking and entering to attempted murder.” Blade’s voice hardened. “I’m not giving him a third shot at you.”

The laughter faded from her face. “When you put it like that . . .”

“Plus, my couch misses you. It’s been asking about you.”

“Your couch talks?”

“Only to special people. It’s very selective about its conversations.”

“What does it say about Kiara?”

The question caught him off guard. He’d never thought about it before, but Kiara rarely came over. She preferred her own space, her own routine. Their relationship existed in careful compartments. Dinner dates, weekend day trips, planned activities that fit neatly into schedules.

“Kiara isn’t on speaking terms with my couch,” he said.

Tori didn’t respond.

Probably the best place to leave it.

They drove in comfortable silence for several miles. Blade took the exit off A1A toward his condo on the narrow strip of island tucked between the Intracoastal and the Atlantic. His phone buzzed with a text. He ignored it.

“You know,” Tori said as they pulled into his parking garage, “I held my own tonight.”

“I know you did. But handling something alone and having backup aren’t mutually exclusive concepts.”

She unbuckled her seat belt. “Fair point.”

“Besides, someone needs to make sure you don’t wake the neighbors with your snoring.”

“I told you I don’t snore.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Blade unlocked his front door and stepped aside, letting Tori enter first. Her easy agreement to stay over felt less like surrender and more like absolute trust.

She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her temples. “I’m wrecked. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“You know where the guest room is.” He grabbed two water bottles from the kitchen and tossed her one.

“Thanks.” She headed down the hallway, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

He retreated to his bedroom and tried to shut down for the night, going through the motions. Gun on the dresser, badge beside it. But the case notes pressed against the back of his mind. Before he knew it, 3:33 a.m. blinked at him from the nightstand. He gave up and reached for his phone. Corbin wouldn’t appreciate the hour, but he always answered logic with logic, and he needed that now.

“King.”

“It’s Blade. You awake?”

“Now I am. What’s going on?”

“I need to run something by you, but first—you cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. I accessed a sealed file through unofficial channels.”

A pause. “Go ahead.”

Blade gave him the rundown: the psychiatric evaluations, the court orders, the transfer to Seattle, the diagnosis of early-onset paranoid schizophrenia. Every detail from Nikos Crew Jr.’s file.

“Hold on,” Corbin said when he finished. “You’re telling me they had a complete psychiatric workup on a four-year-old within six days? Multiple evaluations, a formal diagnosis, and a sealed court order for transfer to a specialized facility?”