Chapter 6: The First Test

Liam

The camera sits on my desk like a black spider, its red eye blinking in the dim light. I have watched the footage three times. Zoe walked into the parking garage. Zoe hands Evelyn the folder. Zoe lying through her teeth about me being interested. And then, at the end, Evelyn's smile – thin, satisfied, hungry.

She believes she is winning and that is the trap. I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. The city is a wound of neon and shadow beyond my window. Somewhere down there, Zoe is in my penthouse, sleeping in my bed, her hair spread across my pillow like a dark promise. I left her there an hour ago, tangled in my sheets, her lips still swollen from my kisses. I should not have touched her. I should not have let her touch me. But when she looked at me with those grey eyes – desperate and defiant, like a soldier who has already lost every battle but refuses to surrender – I forgot why I built these walls.

My phone buzzes. A message from Marcus. She is awake, making coffee and wearing your shirt. I type back, keep watching and do not let her leave. I stand and walk to the window. The glass is cold against my palm. I think about my father – about the night he died, about the file he died to protect, about the promise I made over his grave.

I will burn them all. But Evelyn is not burning. She is spreading. Like the black mark on Zoe's mother's arm, she is winding her way into every corner of my life. And now she has sent me a woman I cannot stop thinking about. That is the test, not the file and not the evidence of her. Evelyn wants to see if I am weak enough to fall for her bait.

And I am failing. I drive back to the penthouse as the sun begins to rise. The sky is the color of old bruises, stained with streaks of gold. The city is waking taxis honking, sirens wailing, the heartbeat of a million lives I do not care about. I care about one. The elevator takes me to the top floor. The doors open. I walk into the penthouse, and there she is.

Zoe is standing in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing my white shirt. It falls to her thighs. Her hair is a tangled mess, and she is holding a cup of coffee like it is the only thing keeping her upright. She looks up when I walk in. Her grey eyes are wary. "You left," she says. "I had work at three in the morning?" I do not answer. I walk toward her, and she does not step back. She sets the coffee down on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Evelyn texted," she says. "She wants another file. She is getting impatient." "How long do we have?" "Three days." She looks down at her hands. "She says if I do not deliver, she will move my mother again. Somewhere I will never find her." I reach out and lift her chin with my finger. Her eyes are wet, but she is not crying. She has not cried once since I met her. I wonder if she remembers how.

"Then we give her something," I say. "Not the real file. Something that looks real. Something that buys us time."

"What kind of something?" I pull a flash drive from my pocket. It is black, unmarked, loaded with fabricated transactions and falsified accounts. I have been working on it for weeks, building a maze of lies that will lead Evelyn in circles.

"This." I place it in her palm. "Give her this. Tell her it is the key. Tell her you found it in my father's safe." She looks at the drive, then at me. "And when she figures out it is fake?" "She will not. Not for weeks." I cover her hand with mine. "By then, I will have enough evidence to put her away for good."

She is quiet for a long moment. The coffee steams between us. The city hums below. "Why do you trust me?" she asks. "I do not." Her face flickers. Something hurts. Something like relief.

"Then why? Because I do not have to trust you." I step closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body. "I have to need you. And I do."

She stares up at me. Her lips part. I want to kiss her. I want to forget that she is a weapon aimed at my chest. I want to forget that I am using her as much as Evelyn is. But I do not. "Three days," I say. "Then we move." The next morning, I watched her leave.

She is wearing a red dress today – the one I bought for her, the one that clings to her curves like a secret. Her hair is loose, and her lips are painted the color of wine. She is going to meet Evelyn. She is going to hand over the fake file. She is going to lie, and smile, and pretend that she is still their puppet.

And I am going to sit in my office and wait. "Marcus," I say into my phone. "Follow her. Keep your distance. If anyone touches her, shoot first." "Understood." The line goes dead. I pour whiskey and stand by the window. The city spreads below me, a web of glass and steel. Somewhere in that web, a woman in a red dress is walking into a trap of her own making.

And I am not sure I can save her. The call comes two hours later. Marcus's voice is tight. "She is in the building. Evelyn is with her. There are more guards than expected." "How many?"

"Six. Maybe eight. Armed." I close my eyes. The whiskey burns in my chest.

"Do not engage, wait for my signal and if something goes wrong then you know what to do." I hang up and stare at my reflection in the window. A stranger looks back – dark circles under his eyes, a scar through his eyebrow, a mouth that has forgotten how to smile.

I have been hunting Evelyn for two years. I have dreamed of this moment – of finally having her in my grasp, of watching her fall. But now, all I can think about is Zoe. Three days, I told her. Then we move. The clock is ticking and I am running out of time.