Page 59 of Torgash

"How's it look?" I ask him.

"Good as new. Maybe better." He tests the lock mechanism, then meets my eyes briefly. "Figured it needed fixing."

Knox doesn't wait for approval or thanks. Just saw what needed doing and handled it, which is why Diesel put him on Nova's detail.

"Anyone else been around? Building maintenance, residents, anyone suspicious?"

"Negative. Been quiet all morning." Knox packs his tools and stands. "The door should hold up fine now."

"Good." I grab his shoulder. "Head back to the clubhouse and keep tabs on Nova's movements. From a distance. She needs space today."

Knox nods his understanding, then opens the door and hands me the keys before walking off.

Nova's apartment shows no signs of intrusion beyond my own. Her wine glass still sits on the coffee table, an open bottle next to it. The bedroom carries the scent of sex and Nova's recent shower, but nothing else.

Nothing wrong here. So whatever spooked her happened elsewhere.

The sheriff's station carries a tension I can taste. Roberta sits at the dispatch desk, filing her nails to avoid actual work. Santos hunches over a mountain of paperwork at his desk, looking like he hasn't slept in days.

"Morning, Santos," I call out, heading toward Nova's office. "Need to grab a file."

"Sure thing." He doesn't look up from his reports.

I step into Nova's office and freeze. The air carries expensive cologne—not the cheap shit most cops wear, but something that screams money and power. Rich, cloying, with undertones that make every instinct snarl with recognition.

And underneath it, the same anxiety I'd detected on Nova this morning.

Royce was here. In her space, where she's supposed to be safe. And he left his mark like a fucking dog pissing on territory.

I'm moving before the rage fully hits, crossing to Santos's desk in three strides. "Who's been in Nova's office this morning?"

Santos looks up, eyes wide. "Just the sheriff, far as I know. Why?"

"Anyone else? Visitors? Delivery people?"

"Negative. Been quiet all morning." Santos frowns. "Is there a problem?"

But I'm already moving. I need to get answers from her, and then I'll finish Royce once and for all.

Nova doesn't look up when I walk back into the war room, but her shoulders go rigid at the sound of my boots on concrete. She's arranged the Garcia files in neat stacks, every document perfectly aligned, every paper clip positioned just so.

Obsessive organization. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusts the papers.

"Find what you were looking for?" she asks, still staring at the paperwork.

"Yeah." I study her profile. She won't look at me. "Expensive cologne in your office. Recent. Anxiety mixed with it. Someone was in your office that shouldn't have been."

Her hands pause on the files. "That's not possible. I have the only key."

"Locks can be picked. Doors can be bypassed." I move closer, and she immediately shifts away. "Royce was there, wasn't he?"

"Lots of people go in and out of the station. Anyone would be nervous in there."

Too smooth. Too rehearsed. She's been practicing this lie, which pisses me off even more than the fact that she's lying.

"Look at me," I demand, fighting to keep my voice level.

Nova glances down at the table, purposely deflecting. "Garcia's deposition prep takes priority—"

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