Page 111 of Priest

It was subtle—almost nothing—but Ghost had seen the lift of her shoulders before she leaned back into him. He’d seen the split-second hesitation before her smile settled into place. Her phone had been sitting face-down on the counter; it buzzed once, and she flipped it over too fast. Ledger hadn’t noticed. He’d smiled at her like she hung the moon.

Ghost had looked away then, because watching that kind of devotion felt intrusive. Tonight it felt fragile.

He opened a blank message on his phone.

To: Priest.

We might have a problem.

His thumb hovered over the screen. If he sent that, he planted a seed. Doubt didn’t stay contained. It spread. He pictured Ledger at the bar again, arm around her, unaware of what Ghost might be holding in his hands.

He deleted the message.

Without proof, all he would be doing was lighting a fuse inside someone else’s marriage.

He rubbed at his chest again, but the pressure there didn’t ease.

Sadie was the cleaner problem.

He slipped his headphones on and opened the live feed from Sadie’s room. The waveform flickered steadily across the screen, unremarkable at first. For nearly an hour there was nothing but the baby’s thin cry and the sound of Sadie pacing—drawers opening, closet sliding shut, the quiet movements of someone trying to look busy.

His eyes burned. His hands trembled once when he reached for his water bottle.

Then came the click.

Static.

And the rush of water.

Ghost straightened in his chair. A shower at two in the morning? He boosted the gain and isolated the left channel. There were footsteps, fabric shifting, and then Sadie’s voice, thin beneath the roar of water.

“Yeah. I’ve got it running.”

His pulse kicked hard. That wasn’t random. That was deliberate.

He hit record on a secondary file and began stripping frequencies, isolating voice bands from the white noise of water crashing against tile. He replayed the clip once, then twice, then three times.

“…no, he doesn’t—”

The water surged louder.

“…I told you I—”

He scrubbed backward and enhanced the background hum, dropped the bass levels, adjusted the filter again.

“…alone…”

Static crackled.

“…not yet…”

He leaned closer to the screen, jaw tight.

“…wait for the call…”

On the fourth replay he caught something under the water—a low mechanical rumble. He froze and rewound, isolating the lower frequencies and boosting them carefully. For half a second it sounded like an engine idling somewhere beyond the shower. A motorcycle. Or a generator. Or maybe just pipes vibrating through old walls.

He replayed it again.