Three days passed. Nothing happened.
Corbin liked that.
Samantha had settled in fast. She woke early, brewed coffee, complained about his coffee, applied for jobs, and treated his kitchen like a personal challenge. She'd reorganized his spice rack alphabetically. He'd left it. He told himself it was temporary. He was lying.
She got an interview. The call came Thursday. She screamed. He'd heard quieter car alarms.
"You'll do fine," he told her when the nerves started.
"Easy for you to say. You read the resume — that doesn't mean I won't walk in there and forget every word I've ever known."
"You talk constantly. It won't be a problem."
She stared at him. "That was supposed to be reassuring?"
"It wasn't meant to be."
She laughed anyway. "See? Comforting. I'm billing you for the emotional support, by the way. Put it on my tab."
"You don't have a tab. You're not opening one. Denied."
"Worth a try."
That evening she sat across from him at the table, laptop open. "They called again this morning. Tomorrow, ten o'clock. I'm choosing optimism, which I realize is dangerous, and I'm wearing professional clothes, obviously, before you check."
"You got an interview. That's not the job yet."
"You're driving me. Not inside — I don't need moral support, silent or otherwise. I just don't have a car, and I refuse to arrive at my one interview having sweated through the professional clothes on public transportation."
"I don't have a car."
She stared. "You absolutely have a car. I watched you drive away in it last week."
"That was someone else's. He needed a ride."
"You're very mysterious, you know that?"
"I've been told. By people. Fewer every year."
"Fine. Find one of your borrowed cars and drive me. Please."
He looked at her over the mug. "I'll drive you. I'll find one."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
"I knew you would. And I didn't say you wanted to — you didn't have to say it."
"You're becoming difficult."
"I've been difficult since we met."
"That is true."
She carried her mug to the sink.
His phone vibrated once.
She kept her back to him at the sink. Corbin picked up the phone. An encrypted message — no number, no name, a different channel than Mercer.
NICE WORK.
Another.
ELIMINATING MY CONTRACT.
The Observer. Someone was talking about the Observer. That wasn't supposed to be possible.
He glanced at Samantha. Rinsing her mug. Unaware. He envied her the mug. Briefly.
He looked back at the screen. Wrong channel, separate encryption, untraceable. Someone had worked hard to stay invisible.
That told him enough. He didn't reply. Replying was a door. He kept his doors closed.
Another message.
YOU WERE EFFICIENT.
Then:
I APPRECIATE THAT.
He typed: WHO ARE YOU?
The message vanished. Five seconds. Then:
YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT.
They knew the rules. No names. No details. No contact. No mistakes.
He waited for the next message. It didn't come. Whoever they were, they knew when to stop talking. That worried him more than the contact.
Another message.
I MAY HAVE ANOTHER JOB FOR YOU.
He read it twice.
Another message arrived before he could set the phone down.
THINK IT OVER.
He set the phone down anyway.
Samantha turned around, drying her mug. "Everything okay? And don't just say 'yeah' while you lock the screen like it contains state secrets."
He locked the screen. "Just work. Something like efficiency-consultant work, at this hour, yes. My clients don't sleep."
"Neither do you. Exactly — I know, save it. You're avoiding the question, Corbin."
"I'm answering a different one. For an efficiency consultant, I spend a lot of time staring at my phone. Occupational hazard. I'll save you the next one too: yes, wear something professional tomorrow, and comfortable, because you'll be nervous whether you admit it or not. You were nervous deciding whether to ask for the couch."
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
She gathered her laptop and went to the couch. Pulled the blanket into place. "Don't forget you're driving me tomorrow. Eight o'clock — but be ready at seven-forty, because you'll be ready at eight and somehow we'll still act like we're early. Fair?"
"Fair."
"Corbin? Thanks. For helping me."
He nodded. "You're welcome."
She settled in. A minute later: "Did you move my charger? No — found it, between the cushions. Sorry."
"It's fine."
She plugged in her phone. "If I get the job, I'm buying better coffee."
"If you get the job, I'll drink it."
"Promise?"
"No."
"It's not even ten, but I have an interview tomorrow, so I'm going to be sensible and terrified in the correct order. Good night, Corbin."
"Good night."
Her breathing evened out. The apartment went quiet.
Corbin stayed in the kitchen. He turned the phone over, unlocked it, wiped the thread, cleared the relay data, and locked it again. Face down on the table.
For years he'd built his life on separation. Separation was a wall. Walls had doors. Someone had just knocked. Clients didn't know his name. Targets never saw him. Handlers knew only what they needed. Every contract had a beginning and an end.
Someone had just stepped across one of those lines. They knew about the Observer, knew Corbin had eliminated him, and knew how to reach him without being seen.
Across the room, Samantha slept.
The message was gone. The question wasn't.
He turned off the kitchen light.
In the dark he stood a moment longer. He checked the front door lock. The deadbolt. Then he stood in the hallway between his door and hers, listening to nothing at all, and went back inside.
He lay awake a long time, listening to the building settle. Somewhere above, a pipe knocked twice. He counted the seconds between. Old habit.