Page 155 of Under Construction

Martinez scratches his chin. "Not for days. Though someone's been up there—hear footsteps at odd hours." He glances toward the ceiling. "Funny thing is, they don't sound like Chris's. His have this certain..." Martinez demonstrates a bouncy step. "You know how he walks."

Dennis knows exactly how Chris walks—that confident stride that used to drive him crazy. "Anyone else been around?"

"Some fancy SUVs parked out back couple days ago. Weird for this neighborhood." Martinez shrugs. "Figured it was just another one of those Airbnb things—rich city people slumming it for the weekend."

"Thanks." Dennis continues up, throat tight. At Chris's door, his key slides into the lock smoothly—not broken, not changed.

The apartment feels wrong. Everything's exactly where it should be, buttooexactly.

The monstera's leaves gleam like they've been wiped clean. The bed is military-precise, corners tucked sharp enough to cut. Chris never made the bed this neat—or at all—always leaving his corner rumpled from their morning activities.

Someone's been here. Someone thorough.

Dennis sweeps a flat palm across the bed sheets.

Dustless. Recent.

Probably right after Chris's father saw the press conference this morning, wanting to verify Chris's loyalties, Dennis suspects. The careful searching suggests they were looking for something specific—communications, plans, anything to reveal Chris's true intentions after his sudden return to LA.

Dennis moves through the space, noting small details—the gaming controllers slightly too centered on the coffee table, Chris's work boots too perfectly aligned. His fingers slide under Chris's side of the mattress where Chris always stashed his gaming phone after late-night sessions. Sometimes, after late-night calls on the balcony.

There.

Dennis picks it up, his fingers brushing against the cool surface, and walks to the desk behind the mattress. The tabletop is empty now, where it usually held all their bits and pieces, haphazardly scattered. These people clearly didn’t know how Chris and Dennis lived.

Sliding open the drawer, Dennis finds the cable tucked inside. He plugs the phone in, watching as the screen flickers to life—a faint tether to Chris.

While it powers up, he surveys the apartment again.

They searched methodically but missed the one thing that mattered. If they saw it, they probably assumed it was just for games. Lancaster’s people were looking for evidence, documents, Chris's work devices. They never considered his gaming phone might be important.

They didn't understand that sometimes the most vital things hide in plain sight.

The phone chimes, calling Dennis back. His fingers hover over the screen, remembering how he'd spent Chris's gems just to annoy him. What he wouldn’t give to be transported back to that moment in time.

He scrolls through the contacts, looking for anything useful.

One number appears over and over in the call history—always at odd hours, always for only a few minutes.

Dennis hits call before he can second-guess himself. It rings twice before a woman's voice answers on the second ring:

"Chris?" Sharp, alert, like she had been waiting.

"No, this is Dennis." His fingers tighten on the phone. "I found your number in his old phone."

A pause. Then: "You're at his apartment."

Not a question.

"Yes. He was supposed to meet me an hour ago. Something's wrong."

"Shit." Keys jingle in the background. "Stay there. I'm ten minutes away."

She arrives in eight, letting herself in without knocking. The woman from outside city hall looks different now—blazer replaced by a black jacket, heels swapped for tactical boots. Her eyes sweep the apartment, taking in the too-perfect corners.

"They searched it." She moves to the window, checking sight lines. "How long ago?"

"Recent. Everything's still..." Dennis gestures at the pristine surfaces.

---