Page 5 of Fractured Loyalties
I lie there, hours passing like ghosts brushing past my skin. I keep thinking I hear things. A scrape. A knock. A muffled click from the kitchen, which I checked three times. But every time I sit up, there’s nothing. Just the same apartment I’ve tried to make mine. Safe, small, predictable. It feels like a lie now.
The ocean outside no longer sounds like the sea. It sounds like breath. Hungry and constant.
I pace the apartment around 3 a.m., barefoot, arms crossed tight against my ribs. I don’t turn on the lights. It feels like breaking a rule. Like light will make something real that I can still pretend isn’t. I check the peephole again. Still nothing. But I can’t shake the pressure that someone was there. Or still is. Waiting. Watching.
I make tea just to hold something hot. Let the steam burn my nose. It doesn’t calm me.
At some point, I doze. Not sleep. Just that shallow hovering where your brain still tugs at every sound. I don’t remember lying down again, but when my eyes open, light is crawling up the far wall, and the clock says 7:04 a.m.
I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. My back aches from the angle I slept. My mouth is dry. I move slowly, not because I’m tired, but because it feels like if I move too fast, something will snap.
I shower longer than usual. Let the water scald until my skin stings. I put on a soft gray sweater, jeans, and boots I can run in. I pull my hair into a low knot. Minimal makeup, just enough to hide what the night did to me.
I double check the locks. Again. Purse, keys, pepper spray. I open the door.
The hallway is empty.
Still, I keep my steps quiet.
Outside, the fog hasn’t lifted. It clings to the trees, to the roof tiles, to the back of my neck like breath.
I walk to work with my hands tucked deep in my pockets, shoulder tight against the chill. A gull shrieks over the cliffside, and I flinch before I can stop myself.
When I push through the clinic’s front doors, the warmth inside feels artificial. Like it’s pretending too.
The morning receptionist is already there. She gives me a nod. I nod back.
I sit. I breathe.
I tell myself:This is a new day.
But everything in my body whispers:No, it’s not.
Not really.
Chapter 2 – Elias – Present Day - Calculated Observations
The email reads like every crisis does—bloated with passive threats and veiled ultimatums. I skim it once, then again, while the morning sun slices through the slats of my office windows, painting symmetrical stripes across the floor. The intercom crackles softly.
My assistant's voice, always careful, says, "Ms. Carr is here to see you."
"Send her in."
On the screen: a global shipping partner demanding last-minute renegotiations. It should irritate me. It doesn’t. I reply with three sentences that settle the matter. No hedging. No diplomacy. Just results.
A soft knock.
“Come.”
Lydia Carr steps inside. Lydia isn’t here to take notes or fetch coffee—she’s the engine behind most of what runs when I’m not in the room. My chief of operations, and the only person I trust to walk into a room without knocking twice. Tailored discipline in heels, always two steps behind me and three steps ahead of everyone else. She slides a folder onto my desk.
“The files you asked for. Including the personal timeline.”
I don’t need to ask whose.
“Mara Thomas,” she says, confirming it anyway. “No digital trail beyond what’s in this. No family ties outside a half-sister who hasn’t seen her in five years. No police records, no online posts, no debt. She’s practically invisible.”
“Not invisible.”
