The drive home took eleven minutes. I know because I counted every one of them, watching the clock on Harper's dashboard while she followed two car lengths behind me, close enough that I could see her headlights in my rearview mirror the whole way. She hadn't asked if I wanted her to come. She'd just grabbed her keys.

I was grateful for that. I didn't trust myself to ask for anything right now.

The red and blue light hit me before I even turned off the engine. It strobed through the front windows of our building in slow, rhythmic sweeps, painting the brick wall of the lobby in colors that felt wrong against the gray morning. A patrol car was parked at the curb, not blocking traffic, just sitting there. Patient. Like it had all the time in the world.

I pushed open the front door.

Two detectives. Our sofa. Ryker in the armchair with his face buried in both hands, shoulders shaking in a way I'd only ever seen once before, at his father's funeral six years ago.

The woman stood first. She was maybe forty, dark hair pulled back, the kind of face that gave nothing away. Her partner stayed seated, a notepad balanced on his knee, pen already moving.

"Harper Sinclair?" she said. "I'm Detective Reyes. We have a few questions about Elodie Marchand."

The blood left my body from the feet up.

I heard myself speak from somewhere very far away. "I'm Willow. He's—" I stopped. Swallowed. "I'm his fiancée. Willow Cross."

Reyes's eyebrow moved. Just barely. Just enough.

She wrote something down.

---

I sat in the chair nearest the window, the one I always curled up in to read on Sunday mornings. It felt wrong to be sitting in it now, straight-backed, hands folded in my lap like a person at a job interview. Ryker hadn't looked up since I came in. His breathing was ragged and wet, the kind that comes after crying has gone on too long.

Reyes stood near the fireplace. Her partner, who hadn't introduced himself, stayed on the sofa and kept writing.

"Ms. Cross," Reyes said, "we've reclassified Elodie Marchand's death as a suspicious death as of this morning. The medical examiner found bruising on her neck inconsistent with a fall. The pattern suggests manual pressure applied prior to the time of death."

The room was very quiet except for Ryker's breathing.

"Additionally," Reyes continued, "the last call Ms. Marchand made before she disappeared on the Cascade trail was to your fiancé's number. The call lasted forty-seven minutes."

I looked at Ryker. He still hadn't lifted his head.

"In his initial statement," Reyes said, "Mr. Sinclair described his relationship with Ms. Marchand as a casual friendship." She paused. "He's since amended that statement. He's told us there was an—" she glanced down at the notepad in her partner's hands "—emotional intimacy between them."

She looked at me then. Directly, the way people look when they want to watch the exact moment something lands.

"Were you aware of that relationship, Ms. Cross?"

Across the room, Ryker finally raised his head. His eyes found mine immediately, red-rimmed, desperate, the look of a man reaching for the last thing he has left. A plea. A question. *Please,* those eyes said. *Please.*

I had three seconds.

Three seconds to decide what kind of woman I was going to be in this room. The betrayed fiancée who'd been kept in the dark — shocked, wounded, but loyal. Or something else. Something that would put me on the wrong side of a detective who already knew more than she was showing.

I let my face do the work I'd practiced on the drive over. I let my chin drop slightly, let my eyes fill, let the breath catch in my throat the way it does when something hits you somewhere soft and unprotected.

"I found out this morning," I said. My voice came out quieter than I intended, which was actually better. "He— he hadn't told me. I didn't know what they were to each other until today."

Reyes didn't react. She just wrote.

"The forty-seven minute call," she said. "You weren't aware of that?"

"No."

From the armchair, Ryker made a sound. Low, involuntary, like something breaking in a place too deep to reach. I didn't look at him.

Reyes's partner finally spoke. His voice was younger than I expected. "Ms. Cross, do you know if Mr. Sinclair ever visited Ms. Marchand in person? Outside of group settings?"

I thought of the photos. The kitchen. My seat in his car. The gray hoodie I'd spent a whole winter looking for.

"I don't know," I said.

It wasn't a lie. Not technically.

---

They asked Ryker a few more questions. He answered in short, broken sentences, the kind you give when you've already said too much and you're trying to stop the bleeding. I sat with my hands folded and my face arranged and watched him come apart in increments, and I felt—

I didn't know what I felt. Something that wasn't grief and wasn't anger and wasn't quite pity either. Something colder. Something that had been sitting in my chest since I'd watched Elodie's face on that seventeen-second video, looking straight into the camera like she'd known someone else would be watching eventually.

The detectives stood to leave twenty minutes later. Ryker hadn't moved from the armchair. His hands hung between his knees, empty.

I walked Reyes to the door. Her partner was already in the hall, already on his phone. She turned back once, and her voice dropped to something that didn't carry.

"Ms. Cross." Not *Willow.* Not *Harper.* She'd already corrected herself. She was precise, this woman. "If you happen to remember anything — about belongings Ms. Marchand may have left for your fiancé — you can reach me directly."

She held out a card. Small, white, a number printed in plain black type.

I took it.

"Of course," I said.

She held my gaze for one beat longer than necessary. Then she was gone, her footsteps even and unhurried down the hall.

I closed the door.

I stood with my back against it, the card between two fingers, and stared at the room — the sofa with its flattened cushions where the detectives had sat, the streak of gray light coming in through the window, Ryker still folded into the armchair like something that had been wrung out and left to dry.

She knew about the box.

Reyes already knew about the box, and she'd told me — not him — and she'd looked at me the way you look at someone when you're deciding whether they're an asset or a liability.

I pressed the card flat against my palm and felt the edges of it, sharp and clean.

I needed to find that box tonight. Before Ryker did. Before Reyes did. Before whoever M was decided Friday had already come and gone.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Ryker before I was moving.

He'd said he needed air. That was the word he used—*air*—like the apartment had been slowly suffocating him and he couldn't last another second inside it. I'd nodded. I'd watched him put on his jacket with hands that weren't quite steady. And the moment I heard the elevator doors open down the hall, I walked straight into the bedroom.

Harper had said: *start with the places he'd least expect you to look.*

I went to his dresser. Third drawer down. Socks.

Ryker was meticulous about his clothes in a way that had always seemed like a personality trait and never like concealment. Everything folded, everything sorted by color. The black dress socks were at the back left corner, stacked in three neat pairs. I lifted the first pair. The second. The third.

My fingers touched leather.

It was small—maybe five inches by three—dark brown, the cover worn soft at the corners from handling. I pulled it out slowly. The smell hit me before I'd even turned it over. Faint. Floral. Something expensive and European that I'd smelled before without knowing where.

Elodie's perfume.

I sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were steady, which surprised me. I opened the cover.

French. All of it. Elegant slanted handwriting, dark blue ink, dates running down the left margin of each page like a ledger. November 14th. November 21st. December 3rd. The entries were dense, no doodles, no margin notes—just line after line of careful, deliberate script.

I opened my translation app. Held the phone over the first page and watched the words appear.

*Target: Ryker Sinclair. Junior partner, Sinclair Marine Holdings. Seventh on C.V.'s list. Trust-building window: estimated ninety days. Initial contact vector: the memorial group. He'll be present. He's always present for grief.*

I read it twice.

Then I set the phone down on my knee and just breathed for a moment, because the room had tilted slightly and I needed the floor to be where it was supposed to be.

Target.

Not *I met someone.* Not *I fell for a man who belongs to someone else.* Target. Vector. List.

Elodie had come for Ryker the way a researcher comes for a subject. She'd planned the introduction, calculated the timeline, chosen the angle of approach. Every coffee, every late-night call, every carefully filmed promise—all of it, engineered.

I started photographing the pages. Both hands, fast and methodical, the translation app running in split-screen so I could skim while I shot. I moved through November, through December, watching the entries shift from clinical to almost impatient.

*He's more porous than I expected. He needs to be needed. I give him that and he gives me access.*

January was thinner—only four entries. Then February, where the handwriting changed, became slightly looser, like someone writing faster.

*He's promised me everything. Leave her, start over, come to Lyon, all of it. He says it every time, and every time I believe he half-means it. But he is not the main objective. He never was. He's the door. C.V. is the room.*

C.V.

The initials had appeared six times already, scattered through the earlier pages. I hadn't caught the significance until now. I flipped back through the photos I'd taken, searching for context. *C.V.'s network. C.V.'s timeline. Ryker is seventh on C.V.'s list.*

Something was building at the base of my throat. Not nausea. Something more like standing at the edge of something very deep and looking straight down.

I kept going.

March, April—entries getting shorter. The ninety-day window had passed. Whatever Elodie had been building toward, she was running out of patience with the approach. *He stalls. He deflects. He doesn't know what Ryker knows, or he pretends not to. I need direct contact. The journal approach may be the only option remaining.*

Then I turned to the last page.

The date was seven days ago. The day before Elodie Marchand fell from the Cascade overlook.

The entry was only seven lines.

*Tonight I tell him the truth. All of it. He'll either help or he won't, but I'm done with the slow approach—it's taken too long and C.V. is moving faster than I anticipated. If I'm not back to write a new page tomorrow: give this journal to Caspian Vance. Vance Tower, fifty-second floor. Tell him the Lyon matter is confirmed. Tell him I tried.*

Below the words, she'd drawn a small symbol.

A dagger. Thin-bladed, detailed. Roses wound around the hilt and curled up the blade, thorns catching at the edges.

I stared at it.

The feeling that moved through me wasn't recognition—it was something slower and colder than that. The kind of feeling that comes just before understanding, when your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

And then it did.

Ryker's tattoo. Left side of his chest, just below the collarbone. He'd gotten it in college—*a stupid decision, Willow, I was twenty and trying to be interesting.* I'd traced it with my fingers a hundred times in the dark without ever really thinking about it. A dagger. Roses twined around the hilt. Thorns.

Identical.

Not similar. Identical, line for line, the same configuration of petals, the same angle of the blade.

The last page had only two words at the top, written larger than everything else, underlined twice: *Caspian Vance.*

The name hung in my vision like a held note.

Ryker had never mentioned that name. Not once. Not in four years, not in passing, not in any context I could locate. But Elodie had written it as though Vance was the center of gravity for everything—the list, the network, the thing in Lyon, whatever that was. The thing she'd died trying to reach.

I was still sitting there, the journal open across my knees, the translation app still glowing, when the bedroom door swung open behind me.

I didn't have time to close it. Didn't have time to do anything except turn.

Ryker stood in the doorway. His face was a color I didn't have a name for—not pale exactly, more like something had been drained out of him all at once and hadn't been replaced. His jacket was still on. He'd been gone maybe twelve minutes.

His phone was in his hand, raised slightly, screen facing out. The way you hold something up when you want someone else to see it.

I looked at the screen.

A text message. The preview was visible in the notification banner, white text against gray. The sender's name sat above it in the small, plain font that contact names always displayed in.

*Elodie Marchand.*

The air went out of the room.

Elodie Marchand, who had been dead for a week, whose phone was presumably somewhere in an evidence bag at the county medical examiner's office, had sent my fiancé a text message forty seconds ago.

One line.

*She found the journal. Run.*

Ryker's eyes moved from the phone to my face. To the journal open on my knees. Back to my face.

Neither of us said anything.

Somewhere outside, a siren started up—distant, moving away—and then the apartment was quiet again, and the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the soft, shallow sound of both of us breathing.