I stepped around the reception desk before Harper could stop me and walked toward the hall. The carpet muffled my footsteps, but the hum grew louder.
A security guard appeared at the corridor entrance, big and bored. “Sir, you can’t—”
Harper’s voice snapped. “Move.”
The guard hesitated, then stepped aside when Harper’s hand hovered near her hip.
We moved down the hall, past doors labeled with soft fonts and calming colors. The hum led me to a room at the end—door shut, blinds drawn.
I pushed it open.
Bree lay on a bed, pale, an IV in her arm. Her eyes were closed. A monitor blinked softly. The room smelled like antiseptic and that same faint perfume she’d worn once, as if someone wanted to remind me she belonged to something.
A man stood beside her bed.
Not Marlowe.
Kellan.
He wasn’t hooded now. He wore a clean jacket and a calm smile, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom.
My blood went cold.
“Matthew,” he said softly, as if we were old acquaintances. “You’re persistent.”
Harper’s gun came up instantly. “Hands up.”
Kellan raised his hands, slow. “Let’s not do that,” he said. “We’re all tired.”
Marjorie stepped into the doorway behind us, eyes hard. “Where’s Chen?”
Kellan’s smile widened. “Nearby,” he said. “Always nearby.”
I stared at Bree’s face, slack and still, and felt rage claw up my throat. “You took her.”
Kellan’s eyes flicked to Bree, almost affectionate. “We moved her to a safer environment,” he said. “Your detective friend is stirring chaos.”
Harper’s voice went low. “You’re under arrest.”
Kellan chuckled softly. “For what? Breathing?”
He took a small step closer to Bree and laid two fingers lightly on her wrist, like he was checking a pulse. Bree didn’t react.
Then Kellan looked at me, eyes pale and flat. “You have something that belongs to me,” he said. “Microfilm. Video. Proof.”
My stomach tightened.
Kellan’s voice stayed calm. “You give it back,” he said, “and Bree stays alive long enough to be cared for. You keep it, and accidents happen.”
The emotional reversal hit like a shove: Bree had become leverage again—only now, the person holding the leash wasn’t family. It was a man who treated lives like lines in a spreadsheet.
Harper’s grip tightened on her gun. “He’s bluffing.”
Kellan smiled faintly. “Try me.”
I swallowed, my throat dry, and felt the terrible shape of the choice forming: evidence or Bree’s life.
Then Bree’s eyelids fluttered—barely—and a tear slid from the corner of her eye into her hair.
She heard him.
She heard me.
And Kellan’s smile widened as if he’d been waiting for me to notice—because the next move wasn’t mine.
It was Bree’s.
And I didn’t know if she was about to beg me to save her… or sell me out one last time.
Part 19
Bree’s tear should’ve cracked me open. Six years of my life had been built around the idea that if she could just feel something—hear something—then it mattered.
But standing in that clinic room with Kellan’s hand hovering over her like he owned her pulse, all I felt was cold.
Goal: get Bree out and keep the evidence. Conflict: Kellan wanted both, and he had the kind of calm that comes from never being told no. New information: Bree was awake enough to hear—and her reaction could steer everything.
Harper’s gun didn’t waver. “We’re not negotiating,” she said.
Kellan’s smile didn’t change. “Everyone negotiates,” he replied. “Some people just pretend they don’t.”
Marjorie stepped forward, voice sharp. “Kellan Mercer,” she said, using his full name like a nail. “You’re not leaving here.”
Kellan’s eyes flicked to her. “Marjorie DeWitt,” he said softly. “Still pretending your moral compass points north.”
So that was her real name. DeWitt. The “borrowed” Powell identity peeled away like a mask.
Marjorie didn’t flinch. “Where’s Chen?”
Kellan’s gaze slid to the door. “Outside,” he said. “Listening. Learning. Deciding which of us is more useful.”
Harper’s jaw tightened. “I’m calling backup.”
Kellan shrugged. “You can try.” His eyes met mine. “But you know what happens when uniforms show up: chaos. Accidents.”
He looked down at Bree again and brushed hair off her forehead with a tenderness that made my stomach turn. Bree’s lips moved slightly, like she was trying to speak through sedation.
I stepped closer, voice low. “Bree,” I said. “If you can hear me, blink once.”
Her eyelids fluttered.
Kellan watched, amused.
I swallowed hard. “Do you want me to give him what he wants?”
Bree’s eyelids fluttered again, longer this time, like a yes—or like exhaustion.
My throat tightened.
Marjorie’s voice cut in, urgent. “Matthew, don’t ask her,” she hissed. “She’s compromised.”
Bree’s lips trembled. A whisper scraped out, so faint I had to lean in to catch it.
“Don’t… trust…”
Then her eyelids fell shut again.
My chest tightened. “Don’t trust who?” I demanded, panic flaring despite my effort to stay cold.
Kellan smiled. “She means you,” he said lightly. “She means the guy who left her in bed while the world ate her alive.”
The words hit because they were sharp enough to cut, but I recognized the tactic. Divide. Poison. Make everyone feel alone.
Harper’s voice went hard. “Shut up.”
Kellan’s gaze moved to Harper’s gun. “You shoot me,” he said calmly, “and Chen walks out with your career in her pocket and my money in her other hand.”
Marjorie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re stalling.”
Kellan didn’t deny it. He glanced at the wall clock, as if timing something.
Then, faintly, from outside the clinic, a siren wailed—distant but approaching.
Harper’s eyes widened just slightly. “I didn’t call—”
Kellan smiled wider. “Someone did.”
The emotional reversal hit like a gut punch: backup wasn’t arriving to save us. It was arriving because someone had set this stage to force a messy ending.
A door down the hall slammed. Footsteps rushed past. A voice shouted, “Federal! Clear the corridor!”
Chen.
Harper’s grip tightened on her gun. “We’re leaving,” she snapped at me. “Now.”
Kellan’s voice stayed calm. “Not without paying.”
Marjorie’s hand slipped into her coat and came out holding the microSD card between two fingers like it was nothing. “You want something?” she said. “Catch.”
She tossed it—not at Kellan. Past him, into the corner of the room where a trash can sat.
Kellan’s eyes narrowed. “Cute.”
Marjorie’s voice was sharp. “It’s the video you want.”
Kellan’s attention flicked, just for a second, toward the trash can.
That second was Harper’s opening.
“Go!” Harper barked.
She shoved the door wider and moved, gun up, leading us out. I glanced back once—saw Kellan pivot smoothly, reaching for the trash can like he couldn’t help himself.
Bree lay still, eyes closed again, a single tear drying on her cheek.
We ran down the hall, carpet muffling chaos. The eucalyptus smell turned sour in my throat.
At the lobby, Chen stood with two men in plain jackets. Her face was composed, but her eyes were bright with something hungry.
“Detective Harper,” Chen said, voice smooth. “Put the weapon down.”
Harper didn’t slow. “Move.”
Chen’s gaze slid to me. “Mr. Rourke,” she said, “you are obstructing a federal operation.”
Harper’s laugh came out sharp. “Operation? This is a cleanup.”
Chen’s smile tightened. “Arrest them.”
The two men stepped forward.
Marjorie moved first. She shoved a small flash drive—thin, metallic—into my hand. “Run,” she hissed. “To the lighthouse.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
Marjorie’s eyes locked on mine. “That’s where Bree wanted the final drop,” she said. “That’s where the real proof goes public.”
Harper’s voice snapped. “Matt, go!”
The emotional reversal hit like a shove off a cliff: leaving Harper and Marjorie to face Chen felt like cowardice—until I understood it wasn’t escape. It was the only way to win.
I sprinted out the clinic doors into cold air that slapped my face. Sirens screamed closer now, blue lights flashing through fog like warning beacons.
Behind me, I heard shouting. A scuffle. Harper’s voice, angry and fierce.
I ran toward Harper’s car, yanked the door open, and slid in. The seat smelled like coffee and wet wool. I started the engine with shaking hands.
As I peeled out of the parking lot, I glanced in the rearview mirror.
Chen stood at the clinic entrance, still and calm, phone pressed to her ear.
And beside her—hands cuffed, face grim—was Harper.
Chen watched my car disappear into fog and smiled like she’d just let her prey run because she already knew where it was headed.
The lighthouse beam swept across the road ahead, pale and unavoidable.
And I realized with a sick drop in my stomach: if Chen had let me go, it was because she wanted me to deliver the evidence straight to the one place she could take it from me.
