The apartment looked different in the morning.
Not much. Samantha hadn't rearranged the furniture. She'd just left things behind. Shoes by the couch. Her charger in the kitchen outlet. Two books on the coffee table, one open and facedown. A sweater over the arm of the couch.
Corbin noticed all of it. He also noticed he didn't mind.
She came in wearing one of his black T-shirts and sweatpants three sizes too big.
She stopped. "What? Don't start — you were staring, and thinking, which is usually when people get into trouble around you."
"You're wearing my clothes. I offered the couch. I didn't offer the wardrobe."
"The couch had terms and conditions? Everything does with you, apparently, and I didn't read them, which you'll tell me is on me." She looked down at herself. "Your shirt is comfortable. It's old, too, so you can't pretend you're emotionally attached to it."
"Exactly." She took his spare mug from the cabinet and filled it.
"You're getting comfortable," he said.
"That's the idea."
She sat at the kitchen table and opened her laptop. Her resume filled the screen. The glow lit her face. She looked like she was negotiating with it.
"Twelve applications," she said. "Zero interviews. At some point it stops being bad luck and starts being a pattern."
"That's a rounding error so far. Patterns can be broken."
"Spoken like a man who's never job-hunted."
"I've applied myself to difficult tasks. Let me see it — you asked yesterday why nobody calls back, and I might actually be able to tell you."
"I didn't ask you to fix it."
"I know."
She turned the laptop toward him. Her experience was solid — admin, scheduling, accounts, customer service, bookkeeping. The problem was the page.
"You buried your strongest skills. You listed everything you've done without ever saying what you're good at — most people write these like they're apologizing for taking up space."
She laughed. "That's oddly specific."
"I've seen a lot of resumes. For the consulting, among other things — and no, I'm not going to list the other things. Your summary. Read it."
She read it aloud. "'Reliable administrative professional with experience supporting day-to-day office operations.'"
Corbin nodded. "Accurate. And forgettable. You coordinated schedules, managed accounts, handled customers, kept the books — you made other people's working lives easier. Say that."
"I suppose I did," she said, and started typing. He pointed out two more places where she'd undersold herself. Twenty minutes later she leaned back.
"You make it sound like I ran the place."
"You kept it running. There's a difference, but not on paper."
"That is actually better. It should be, I know." She studied him. "Do you ever say anything nice, or is silently fixing things your entire compliment system?"
"I just helped you rewrite your resume. That is a compliment, from me."
"You're terrible at compliments."
"I'll work on it."
"Five jobs," she said, looking at the screen. "I could apply for five of these with this version. You really think I can do them?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Apply. I've seen your spreadsheet — it was open, before you ask."
"Snoop."
"Observer."
Something in her face changed. "Thanks, Corbin. You'd do the same for me, you know. Even if you wouldn't rewrite my resume."
"I would not rewrite your resume."
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
He showered while she was still at the table. When he came out, she was in the shower herself, and he went to the desk.
The encrypted channel was still open on the secondary machine. The Mercer contract was still active. He scrolled the thread. Three weeks of nothing. Brokers were patient until they weren't.
He opened the photograph he'd taken the night before. The Observer, bound to the chair, exactly as Corbin had left him.
Corbin attached it to the encrypted message and typed two words: CONTRACT COMPLETE. Sent.
The response came in under ten seconds:
PAYMENT AUTHORIZED.
He stared at it. No questions. No request for confirmation. No mention of the Observer, or Mercer. Just payment. Ten seconds. He'd once waited three days for a client to confirm a parking ticket. This one paid for a dead man in ten seconds.
The client had accepted a photograph of their dead cleanup operative without asking a single thing. Either they already knew, or they didn't care.
Neither was comforting.
He closed the channel, deleted the photograph, cleared the temp files, and shut the machine down. "Clean," he said to the empty room. It was the closest thing he had to a hobby.
When Samantha came out of the bathroom, he was at the kitchen table with his coffee.
"You're weird," she said. "You disappear for twenty minutes and come back looking like you were never here. Most people at least look damp, or annoyed, after a shower. You look like evidence that you took one has been professionally removed."
"I wasn't aware showers had a suspicious appearance. I always have an answer, before you say that too. Usually."
"And you never talk about yourself." She sat across from him. "What did you want to be when you were a kid? There has to be something — astronaut, fireman, extremely organized menace."
"A long time ago. I don't remember, and that's a terrible answer, but it's the one I've got. Everyone remembers something, apparently. I remember being told to sit still."
"And?"
"I was good at it."
"That's sad, Corbin."
"It's efficient. I keep saying that because it's my whole personality."
"What about now, then? Forget the kid. What do you want to do with your life?"
For once, no prepared answer. "I don't know."
She smiled. "That might be the most normal thing you've ever said."
She carried her mug to the sink. "I'm applying for those five jobs — all five, before you ask. If I get all of them, I'll be tired, and it'll be worth it. And I'm going to keep working on your apartment."
"Good."
She picked up her laptop and headed for the couch, then stopped. "Your apartment isn't actually empty, you know. It has furniture, and rules, and you enforcing the rules, because someone has to. What it has most is you. And maybe it's a little lonely."
"Lonely's a strong word."
"It's an accurate one."
"You're learning."
She walked away before he could answer.
"You want coffee?" she called. "Not this coffee — better coffee. I'm fixing that this week, so enjoy the current situation while it lasts."
"I have coffee. And there's no such thing as better coffee here."
He doubted it. He didn't say so.
He stayed at the table. A few minutes later, the tapping of her keyboard started from the couch.
For years he'd kept his life divided — work on one side, everything else on the other. Samantha hadn't crossed that line on purpose. She hadn't known it was there.
Somehow, that was becoming the problem.