Nathan offered to arrange a car. I almost refused out of pride, but exhaustion had settled into my bones.
“Okay,” I said. “But not yours. Company car through normal security.”
A faint warmth touched his eyes. “Understood.”
Downstairs, while we waited near the side entrance, the lobby was almost empty. The security guard at the desk nodded politely. Rain streaked the glass doors.
Nathan stood beside me, close enough that I felt his presence, not so close that it crowded me.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him. “For what?”
“For all of this touching your life.”
I watched the rain blur the streetlights.
“My life wasn’t untouched before you,” I said. “It was just quieter.”
“That sounds like something I should apologize for.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what this is yet. The photograph. The files. Your father. My name. But I know I don’t want to be treated like an accident that happened to you.”
His expression changed.
“You’re not.”
“Then don’t apologize for my being involved. Help me understand why I am.”
The car arrived.
Before I stepped outside, Nathan said, “My father kept a private archive at his old house. Not company records. Personal ones. I had it sealed after his death because I couldn’t face going through it.”
I turned back.
“There may be something there,” he said.
“About Bennett?”
“Maybe.”
The rain fell harder beyond the doors.
“Then we go,” I said.
His eyes searched mine. “Not alone.”
“No,” I agreed. “Not alone.”
Saturday morning arrived gray and cold.
I woke after only a few hours of sleep, made coffee too strong to enjoy, and sat at my kitchen table with my old laptop. For three hours, I searched through emails, calendar entries, bank statements, text backups, and anything else that might prove where I had been on the night Nathan’s father died.
At first, I found nothing.
Then, buried in an old email folder labeled Job Stuff, I discovered a shift confirmation from the nonprofit where I used to work.
Bennett, Maya: Data Entry Support, 6:00 PM–11:00 PM.
Same date.
My breath rushed out.
I found two follow-up emails from that night too—one sent by me at 9:42 PM to my supervisor with an attached spreadsheet, another at 11:18 PM asking whether I could swap a weekend shift. Then a bank transaction from a late-night diner near my old office, timestamped 11:47 PM.
I had proof.
I had not been at the hospital.
The relief lasted only a second.
Because the evidence did not answer the larger question.
Why had someone wanted it to look like I was?
By noon, Harper arrived carrying bagels, orange juice, and the expression of a woman prepared to fight a war using only sarcasm and office supplies.
I told her everything.
She listened while pacing my apartment in socks, her bagel untouched in one hand.
When I reached the part about Nathan’s father saying, Find Bennett before they bury it, she stopped moving.
“Maya,” she said slowly.
“What?”
“Your mom’s maiden name wasn’t Bennett, right?”
“No. Bennett is my dad’s name.”
“And your dad died when you were little.”
I nodded. “I was six.”
“Do you know much about his work?”
The question made me frown.
“My dad?”
Harper sat across from me. “Yeah.”
I leaned back, unsettled by the turn in conversation. “He was an electrical engineer. At least, that’s what my mom always said. He did contract work. He traveled sometimes.”
“For who?”
“I don’t know. I was six.”
“Did he ever work for Northstar?”
“No,” I said automatically.
But even as I said it, uncertainty slipped in.
Northstar had existed back then, but it had been much smaller. A technical company. Data systems. Infrastructure tools. The kind of place that might hire engineers on contract.
My coffee had gone cold.
“Harper.”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking.”
I stood and walked to the closet near my bedroom. On the top shelf was a plastic storage bin I rarely opened. Inside were old family photos, birthday cards, school certificates, and a small wooden box that had belonged to my mother.
My mother, Elaine Bennett, had died four years ago, just before I started trying to rebuild my life into something that looked stable from the outside. She had been loving, practical, and private in the way people become when life has taught them to survive without explanation.
I carried the box to the table.
