Chapter 6

 I had been designed to say almost nothing because anonymity was the whole point. I scrolled back through three weeks of conversation.

He was careful. Every message was measured. He asked questions that felt natural and followed up on details I gave him in ways that built the impression of genuine interest. And the thing was — it had felt like genuine interest. That was the craft of it. I had felt seen by this account for three weeks and that feeling had been real even if the account was not.

I closed the app.

I had two options. Confront him and end whatever this was. Or keep the information and watch what he did next.

I chose to watch.

Not because I had a plan. Because I was not ready to end it and I did not want to admit that yet.

So I watched.

Tuesday he sent me a direct text at 7pm. "This week is heavy. Thursday if you're available." I read it and did not reply for an hour. Then I replied: "Thursday works." I put my phone down.

Wednesday Niles Ashby stopped by my desk at 11am. He was a tall man in his early sixties with silver hair and the specific kind of polish that came from forty years of boardroom performance. He had never stopped by my desk before. He always went directly to Alex's office or called ahead.

"Luke, isn't it," he said. Like he did not know my name.

"Yes, Mr. Ashby."

"Alex in?"

"He's on a call until noon. I can let him know you stopped by."

"No need." He smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes. "I'll catch him at the board dinner Thursday. Tell me — how long have you been with the firm?"

"Fourteen months."

"Fourteen." He nodded slowly. "And before that?"

"Private sector support role downtown."

"Right." He picked up the pen holder on the edge of my desk, looked at it, and set it back down. "Alex keeps good staff. You must work closely with him."

"It's a secretary role, Mr. Ashby. The job is the job."

He smiled again. "Of course." He walked away without another word.

I watched him go. Then I sent Alex a calendar note flagged urgent: "Ashby stopped by your desk. No stated reason. Questions about my tenure and proximity to you. Thought you should know before Thursday."

The reply came back in four minutes. "Noted. Don't engage him further. Well done."

I stared at the "well done" for longer than I should have.

Thursday came.

I went to the hotel.

And I still did not say a word about what I knew.

*****

Rowan Voss showed up at the office on a Friday afternoon like he owned it, which technically he did not but also sort of did, because the name on the building belonged to both of them by blood even if only one of them ran it.

He was younger than Alex by five years and it showed — not in the face, they had the same jaw and the same dark eyes, but in the way he moved. Less contained. He walked through the floor like he was deciding in real time whether to stay and he dropped into the chair across from my desk with zero announcement.

"You must be the famous Luke," he said.

I looked up from my screen. "I'm not famous."

"You are to Alex." He leaned back. "He mentioned you."

"I'm his secretary. He probably mentions me the way people mention their calendar app."

Rowan laughed. It was a real laugh, unguarded, nothing like Alex's rare almost-smiles. "Right. Sure." He looked around the floor. "He in?"

"He's in a partner review until three."

"Of course he is." He pulled out his phone and checked something, put it away. "I'll wait."

He waited at my desk. He was not quiet about it. He asked me three questions about the firm, two about the city, and one about where I had lunch, all in the span of fifteen minutes. Then he stopped and just looked at me.

"What," I said.

"Nothing. You're just not what I expected."

"What did you expect."

"Someone who looks more like a target," he said. Just like that. Easy, like it was a neutral observation.

I kept my face completely still. "I don't know what that means."

"No," he said. "You probably don't." He stood up when Alex's office door opened at 3:08pm. "Nice to meet you, Luke."

He walked into Alex's office. The door closed.

I sat at my desk and turned the word over. Target.

He knew something. Not everything — I did not think Alex had told him everything — but something. Enough to come and look at me in person and make that assessment.

At 4:30pm when Rowan left, he stopped at my desk again. Alex was behind him, jacket back on, heading to a late call.

"You should ask him directly," Rowan said, quiet enough that it was just between us. "Alex doesn't do things without a reason. The reason might surprise you."

He kept walking. Alex glanced back once from the elevator — just a look, unreadable — and then the doors closed.

That evening I sat in my apartment and turned it over again. Ask him directly. The reason might surprise you.

I had the information. I had the open tab on the laptop, the timestamp on Wednesday, the three weeks of manufactured conversation. I had the full architecture of how this had been built.

What I did not have was the answer to a different question, the one I had been avoiding because it complicated everything. Not how did he do it. But why Luke specifically. Why fourteen months of proximity and then a calculated approach through an app instead of a direct conversation. Why the patience. Why the construction.

Alex could have anyone. He was thirty four years old, ran a successful firm, and moved through rooms the way people moved through rooms when they were used to being looked at. He had no shortage of options that would have required zero effort and zero risk.

He had done this instead.

I opened my laptop and stared at a document I was not reading. Then I closed it and went to bed.

Saturday I was in the middle of laundry when my phone rang. Not Alex. My father.

I let it ring twice before I picked up.

"Luke." Conrad Everett had a voice that always sounded like the beginning of an agenda. "I've been trying to reach you."

"I've been working, Dad."

"It's Saturday."

"Work doesn't stop on Saturday."

He moved past that the way he moved past most things I said. "I had dinner with Edmund Kade last week. You remember the Kades."

"No."

"Edmund and I worked together before he moved to Hartford. His son Piers is back in the city. He's in finance, doing very well, and Edmund thought—"

"Dad."

"Just dinner, Luke. One dinner. That's all I'm asking."

"I'm not available for dinner."

"You're not available for any dinner? Ever? You eat alone every night?"

"I'm not available for the kind of dinner you're describing."

There was a pause. Conrad Everett was not a man who gave up in one phone call. I knew this. He knew that I knew this. "I'll call you next week," he said. "Think about it."

He hung up.

I set the phone down on the washing machine and looked at the wall.

One problem at a time.

I texted Alex: "Are we still on tonight?"

The reply came in two minutes. "Yes. I'll send details at seven."

I went back to my laundry.