Page 14 of Fractured Loyalties
The morning flows as it always does—smooth, efficient, unflappable. I settle two internal disputes between partners without breaking pace, then recalibrate a failing client portfolio in under twelve minutes.
But my mind drifts. Not away. Not entirely. It hovers at the edge of focus. Her.
Mara.
Her silence yesterday. The rigidity in her shoulders. The eyes that didn’t quite meet anyone’s.
I replay it.
I let it live in me.
By midday, I’ve cancelled a client lunch and pulled Lydia into my office.
"I need everything you’ve got on Caleb Rusk. All of it."
She doesn’t flinch. Just gives a slow nod. “I figured you’d ask. I’ve already started pulling records. You’re not going to like what you find.”
“I rarely do.”
She lingers at the door. “You’re not a savior, Elias.”
“No,” I say, “I’m not.”
She leaves.
And I get back to work.
It’s later in the afternoon when Lydia returns. She places the file silently onto my desk, her expression as unreadable as always. She doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to.
“Caleb Rusk,” she begins, eyes steady on mine. “A history of domestic violence. Multiple incidents, multiple women. No convictions, though. Charges always dropped or settled quietly.”
I open the file, flip through documents—police reports, hospital records. Images I’d rather not see, yet study anyway. They further confirm the reports I've got so far.
“And Mara?” I ask, the name a tense whisper I almost regret saying aloud.
“She filed restraining orders in the past. All expired now. There’s no current legal protection in place.” Lydia pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “She’s vulnerable, Elias. Dangerously so.”
I meet Lydia’s gaze, recognizing the subtle challenge there. “Thank you, Lydia.”
She turns toward the door, then pauses. “Be careful. The line you're walking here isn’t thin—it’s invisible.”
The door clicks softly behind her.
I sit motionless for a long moment, the weight of what must come settling around me like a physical thing. My mind slips—without permission—into places I've tried to bury. The memories I rarely let surface begin crawling forward, vivid and unwanted. A slammed door. A raised fist. The quiet humiliation afterward, bruises hidden beneath sleeves and collars.
My father’s face in Caleb’s files. The resemblance isn’t physical, but the echo of brutality is unmistakable.
My breath shudders. I regain control, slowly, deliberately. I straighten the papers in the file, edges aligned perfectly.
Then, carefully, I close the folder.
I head to the area around Mara’s apartment while she's safely at the clinic. Installation of discreet surveillance equipment is precise, quiet, and swift. Small, wireless cameras hidden in streetlamps, alleyways, and the apartment building’s exterior.
One placed carefully in the hallway outside her apartment door—disguised seamlessly within the corridor’s existing fixtures. Nothing directly invasive inside her private space, but close enough to catch movement and better sound. Just enough to ensure constant awareness of her surroundings. It’s necessary. Essential.
By evening, each vantage point is operational. I test the feeds from my mobile device, satisfaction settling in as I watch the clear, steady images stream flawlessly.
With surveillance secured, I return to the office, my mind sharper, more focused.
