All Chapters of Undercover Hearts: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

SophiaMarcus’s apartment is not what I expected.Yes, it has that minimalist vibe going on, but it’s also warm. Lived-in. Designed by someone who cares about light, and texture, and probably reads hardcover books by an actual fireplace. The couch is cloud-soft. The rugs are Persian. There’s great art on the walls, although we’ve already established Elena picked that. I wonder if they’ve ever been more than friends.A vintage record player hums in the corner, half-hidden under a stack of vinyl. The windows are huge and slightly fogged, revealing a skyline that looks painted on.I blink, not quite ready to reconcile this space with the Marcus I know. Or thought I knew.He disappears into the kitchen to make fresh coffee, leaving me sitting in the middle of his open-plan living room like I’m waiting to be appraised.He’s in flannel pajama pants and a plain black T-shirt now. Still barefoot, still rumpled in that unfairly attractive way. The image of him answering the door shirtless is

SophiaThe library smells faintly of dust, lemon oil, and the unique scent of paper. No one’s in a rush here. The pace is slower, every sound muted under the high ceiling and the steady tick of an ancient wall clock.I sign the visitor’s log and slip into the archive room, where rows of beige filing cabinets stand like dutiful sentries. This is where the city keeps the paper ghosts. Old incorporation documents, board meeting minutes, financial ledgers. The things no one thinks to digitize because they assume no one will care.I care.It’s a Saturday morning, and instead of brunching somewhere cute with Preston or buying overpriced fruit at the farmers market with Jamie, I’m chasing the faint shadow of a company that doesn’t exist anymore. Halberd Equity Solutions.Marcus’s voice floats back to me from a few days ago. How he’d mentioned Marrin’s name like it was a puzzle piece that never fit. I’m not sure whether he meant to mention it at all, but it was enough to get me here after a

MarcusThe door to 3B opens with a hollow groan, and I’m met with the kind of silence that only comes from an apartment that’s been empty for months. The kind that swallows sound whole.Dust has settled in the corners, collecting in thin webs over the stripped-down kitchen counters. The place smells faintly of old plaster and something metallic. Like the ghost of a radiator that hasn’t kicked on in a long time.This was Marrin’s last known address. According to the building manager, he broke the lease three months ago, “real sudden-like,” and left no forwarding information. The guy claimed Marrin moved out with nothing more than a duffel bag and an unmarked van waiting downstairs.There’s no trace of him here now.I step inside, scanning each wall, every window. The living room is bare, save for a few deep gouges in the floor where heavy furniture used to sit. There’s no mail piled up, no trash. Whoever cleared this place out did it deliberately and well.In the bedroom, a sliver o

MarcusThe Bureau’s archive server isn’t a place most people just… wander into. It’s built to repel casual curiosity. Layer after layer of log-ins, authorizations and encryption. Gillespie didn’t give me clearance for this. Which is why I’m doing it from the small, dim corner of my home office at two in the morning, with the lights off and the blinds shut.The glow from the monitor is the only illumination, blue-white and sterile against the black around me. It’s like sitting inside a fish tank.Pemberton’s file comes up in segmented bursts, as if the system itself is reluctant to hand it over. Decades of wealth, and more quiet manipulations than any one man should have time for. It’s all here. Bank statements, property deeds, transfers, shell companies with charmingly generic names.I scroll through the financial records the week before his death. Each line item is like a heartbeat, steady and predictable. Until it isn’t.For three days there’s suddenly nothing.Not a single transa

SophiaThe downtown records office smells like every dusty archive I’ve ever set foot in. Dry paper, stale air, and the faint tang of toner from a printer that probably pre-dates my career. It’s not a place you stumble into by accident. You have to walk through a marble-floored lobby, sign a clipboard, and hand over your ID to a clerk who regards you like you’re here to commit a crime.I’m not even here digitally. Claire’s voice is in my head, warning me again about leaving a trail. This is old-school, analog only.The reading room is chilly, even though it’s late afternoon in August. Rows of beige metal filing cabinets run along the walls, with broad wooden tables in the center under buzzing fluorescent lights.There’s a scattering of other patrons. An older man in a suit paging through property records, a grad student type surrounded by microfiche reels, a woman with a pile of bound ledgers.I head straight for the archive desk, give my request in a low voice. The name of the now-d