Vance stared at the photograph on the table.
A man tied to a chair, his face bruised and swollen. In his hands, another photograph: Vance, his wife, his children. Across the bottom, in black marker: You're next.
Vance ignored the dead man. He studied the background, the angle, the light. Corbin hadn't just killed one of his men. He'd staged it.
"I think he's very good," Vance said, lowering the photo. "That's the review. Very good, and very patient."
Keller waited across the room. "That's it?"
"No. I think he wants me afraid. The staging, the photograph in the dead man's hands — it's theater."
"Should you be? Afraid."
Vance almost smiled. "Everyone should be afraid of someone."
Keller glanced at the table. "He threatened your family. In writing. In marker."
"I noticed."
"We should move them. Tonight. A hotel, your sister's — somewhere he hasn't photographed."
"No. He wants me to react. Moving them is a reaction — it's the biggest one available, and I'm not giving him what he wants."
"So what do we do?"
"Find out what matters to him. Precisely. Not generally — precisely."
"We know what matters to him," Keller said.
"Do we?"
"The woman. Samantha."
Vance picked up the photograph again. "He left a picture of my family to tell me to stay away from his."
"And if you don't?"
"Then we find out what the Ghost does when he's not sending photographs."
Keller was quiet. "You don't want to know."
"No," Vance said. "I really don't."
* * *
Corbin woke before the alarm and lay still, staring at the ceiling.
On the couch, Samantha slept under her blanket. His eyes moved from her to the window. Nothing outside. No silhouettes, no unfamiliar cars. The unease stayed.
He got up and checked the front door and both windows. Secure.
When he came back, she stirred. "You always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Walk around the apartment at dawn like you're checking for ninjas. Doors, windows, the whole patrol."
"Useful habit."
She opened one eye. "Any ninjas?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Disappointing. I had a whole thing ready. I was going to be so brave."
"Get some sleep," Corbin said, with the faintest smile.
By eight-thirty she was in the kitchen with coffee, making a face at the first sip.
"I figured out what's wrong with your coffee."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It tastes like you made it angry. Like it holds a grudge and the grudge is the flavor."
"I'll apologize to it," Corbin said.
"Don't apologize," she said. "It wouldn't believe you. It knows you."
Corbin took the mug from her hand and drank. "Tastes fine."
"You're immune."
"To coffee."
"To everything. Taste, weather, compliments. It's a whole condition."
"Not everything."
She smiled. For a moment it felt normal. Then she grabbed her purse. "I should get going."
"Call me when you get there."
She stopped. "Are you serious? You've never asked me that before. Not once. You barely ask me to pass things that are already in my hand."
"I know."
"Okay. I'll call." She studied him. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes."
"You're lying. That's the voice. The official lying voice."
"I'm asking you to call me."
"Same thing, with you. Somehow more honest, though. I'll allow it."
The door closed. Corbin looked at the clock. He didn't like the feeling in his gut. He trusted it anyway.
* * *
She was half a block down when a man called her name from a parking lot entrance.
"Samantha?"
Mid-thirties, dark jacket. He held up a phone. "Sorry. Thought this was yours."
"No."
"My mistake." A polite smile. "Have a good day."
"You too," she said.
He watched her walk away. She didn't see the parked car across the street, or the man inside it holding her photograph.
The call came at 9:17.
"Hey. I made it."
"Good."
A pause. "Something weird happened, though. Probably nothing — I want that on the record before I say it, because you're going to do the thing. A guy stopped me about half a block from the apartment."
Corbin straightened. "What did he want?"
"He asked if I was Samantha. Said he thought I dropped a phone — held one up, very polite. I hadn't dropped anything. I said no, he apologized, end of scene."
"Did he touch you?"
"No."
"Threaten you? Follow you? Get in your path at all?"
"No, I don't think so."
Corbin stood and walked to the window. "What did he look like?"
She described him. Mid-thirties. Dark jacket. Polite.
"That's it?" Corbin asked.
"That's it. It was nothing, probably."
"Probably."
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The quiet thing. Where you go still. I can hear you going still."
"I'm listening."
"You're doing more than listening."
The street below looked ordinary. But Corbin understood: Vance hadn't ignored the warning. He'd answered it — through Samantha. Not to hurt her yet. To prove he could reach her.
"Corbin?"
"I'm here."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He closed his eyes briefly. "I need you to do something for me. Don't leave work alone. Walk out with someone. Anyone."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later. Please."
"Okay."
"It sounded like an order. It had the shape of an order and most of the same syllables."
"Please was in there."
"At the end. As decoration."
"It still counts."
"Thank you. I think. I'm ninety percent sure that was a thank you in Corbin."
He hung up. The phone rang again — unknown number. He answered without speaking. Four seconds of silence. Then the caller hung up.
A text arrived: Samantha walking to work, shot from across the street. Clear. Professional.
Corbin deleted it and looked around the apartment. For the first time, it didn't feel like a safehouse. It felt like a target.
* * *
That evening she came home with groceries. "I'm home."
Corbin was at the kitchen table. "How was work?"
"Good." She set the bag down. "You could try pretending you're not interrogating me."
"I'm asking about your day."
"You're counting my answers."
"Am I?"
"Yes. You've asked three questions in ten seconds."
"That's conversation."
"That's a debrief."
"Did anyone bother you?"
"Besides you?"
"Besides me."
"No." She stopped. "Why?"
"Because I asked."
"That's not a reason."
"It's a question."
"Corbin."
When he didn't answer, she crossed her arms. "Okay. No. You're doing that thing again — where you decide something is my problem and then won't tell me what it is because you've decided that's safer. It isn't safer. It's just quieter for you."
"Samantha—"
"If I'm in danger, I need to know. Me. Not the version of me you've decided can handle it later."
Corbin nodded slowly. "Someone is watching you."
Her expression shifted. "Who?"
"I don't know yet. It's connected to me."
"Are they going to hurt me? I need the real answer."
"I don't know." He saw the truth frighten her. "I won't let that happen."
"You can't promise that. You know you can't. Don't start tonight."
"No." He met her eyes. "But I can promise I'll do everything I can."
She looked away. "Is this because of the life you had before I met you?"
"Yes."
She nodded and picked up a grocery bag. "Do they know about me? About us — this. The apartment. All of it."
"Yes."
"How long have you known?" she asked.
"That they were watching?"
"That I was... in it."
"Longer than you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now."
She carried it into the kitchen without another word.
Corbin watched her go. He didn't tell her about the photograph, or how close the camera had been. Vance wasn't trying to kill her. He was watching how Corbin reacted to being threatened. He assumed Corbin would act out of emotion.
Corbin looked at the table. Cold. Quiet.
Vance had drawn a line. Tomorrow, Corbin would step across it.