Three days later, Samantha got the job.
She came through the door with a paper bag and the biggest smile Corbin had seen since she moved in. "I got it. The job — I got the job."
"Congratulations."
She stared. "That's it? A little enthusiasm wouldn't kill you. You said it like the weather was acceptable, and the weather is rarely acceptable, before you start."
"I've been told I'm terrible at this. By you. Just now, apparently in advance."
She tried to stay serious and failed. She laughed and set the bag on the counter. "I start Monday. Eight-thirty to five, benefits after ninety days, which is the part that actually helps. And I bought Chinese — yes, I'm bribing you, with noodles, and it works, so don't analyze it."
She handed him chopsticks. "See? You can be normal."
"Let's not get carried away. Are you nervous?"
"I'm choosing not to be. First impressions matter, and I make a good first impression."
"You make a lasting impression. Different thing."
She opened her container. "What if they don't like me?"
"They will."
"You don't know that."
"I know you."
She looked at him. "That was almost nice. Now eat your noodles — you're deflecting, and you haven't touched your food. You're observing it."
"I'm eating."
"You weren't."
"Fine." He picked up the chopsticks. "Congratulations. Properly this time."
"Better."
* * *
Later, she fell asleep on the couch.
Corbin waited until the apartment went still, then opened his laptop.
The Observer had been careful. Men like him didn't make lazy mistakes. That was what bothered Corbin.
He'd taken the Observer's phone before the man disappeared into the furnace. Heavy encryption, but encryption only worked if the user never slipped. The Observer had slipped.
Corbin worked through the files. Addresses. Photos. Car descriptions. Surveillance logs. Standard data.
Then the secondary folder.
Inside were pictures of him.
The first was eight months old. Then six. Then four. Three. Two. One. The dates kept getting closer.
Someone had been watching him for months.
Another file: restaurants, hotels, parking garages, safe houses. Places he'd been.
He scrolled down and stopped. His own address, added two weeks ago. Below it: Samantha's old apartment.
The Observer hadn't found Samantha after she moved in. He'd known about her before.
Corbin clicked into the final directory. A list of names — some meant nothing, others were former associates, old contacts, dead men.
Near the bottom: MERCER.
The attached file held one line: SECONDARY CONTACT — DO NOT APPROACH.
Mercer wasn't the real target. He'd known that for days. This confirmed it. Mercer was tied to whatever was happening.
"Interesting," Corbin muttered.
A floorboard creaked. He shut the laptop.
Samantha stood in the hallway, rubbing her eyes. "You're still up, doing mysterious work at an hour no honest person keeps. What kind this time — the boring kind?"
"Work. Boring work."
"Someday I'll figure out what you actually do. Don't tell me not to try; it's either ominous or dull, and I'm now fairly sure it can be both. Good night, Corbin."
"It can be both. Good night, Sam."
She settled back under the blanket. He left the laptop closed and went to the window.
The street was dark and quiet. A streetlamp threw a yellow circle on the pavement. An engine hummed somewhere and faded.
Then a dark sedan rolled down the street. Slow. It didn't stop, turn, or park. Corbin watched the taillights disappear around the corner and memorized the plate.
Probably nothing. But a coincidence and a warning looked identical until it was too late.
He stood there a while longer. The street stayed quiet. No second car. No footsteps.
He went back inside and locked the door. Checked it twice.
* * *
Morning. Samantha was dressed, mug in hand. "I start Monday. I'm nervous. And before you say I'll do fine — you love saying that."
"It usually fits."
She grabbed her bag. He picked up his keys.
"I'll walk out with you. I need groceries."
"You have things in those cabinets that expired before we met, and don't tell me expiration dates are suggestions, because that is not how food works."
"That's a definition of real groceries, I suppose. Food that doesn't predate our friendship?"
"Exactly. We're buying real groceries."
They walked downstairs together.
Further down the block, in the dark sedan, a man watched them leave. He raised his phone, took a picture, and sent it.
That afternoon, Corbin came home alone. Samantha had gone to buy clothes for the job.
The moment he stepped inside, something was off.
Nothing broken. Nothing missing. Nothing out of place. That was the problem.
He cleared the apartment room by room — kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room. Window locks, rear exit. Untouched.
Then he saw the photograph on the kitchen counter.
Him and Samantha, walking down the sidewalk that morning. Fresh. The same clothes he was still wearing.
No note. No signature.
Someone had been close enough to take the picture, close enough to follow them home, and good enough to leave it inside his locked apartment.
He turned it over. Nothing. He slid it into his pocket.
He checked the lock on the front door. Unmarked. He checked the windows. Latched.
Whoever had done this hadn't forced anything. They'd walked in like they belonged.
The street outside was normal. Parked cars, neighbors. The sedan was gone.
The front door unlocked and Samantha came in with two shopping bags. "I bought way too much. This one's for the job, this one's also for the job — apparently panic buys in pairs." She looked up. "What? You look strange."
"Nothing. I always look like this."
"Fair point."
"Understandable."
"You don't panic."
"I do it quietly."
He watched her, then turned back to the window.
Someone was watching. He didn't know who, or for how long. They'd made one thing clear: they could reach him anytime.
And now they knew who he cared about.
"You were at the window before I left," she said. "Now you're at the window again. It's a parking lot, Corbin."
"Good view. It's an interesting parking lot."
She came to stand beside him. For a moment neither spoke.
His hand tightened around the photograph in his pocket. He didn't say a word.