JAKE

The bullpen was almost silent now. Just the hum of machines, the occasional shuffle of paper, and the soft whirr of a vending machine that hadn't been stocked in weeks thanks to the holidays.

Most of the agents had cleared out hours ago. Even the overhead lights had dimmed to that eerie, half-lit glow that made everything feel like a graveyard shift in purgatory.

Luke leaned against the corner of the desk, jacket slung over one shoulder, coffee cup long emptied. "You sure you're good?" he asked, voice lower than usual.

I nodded without looking up, still flipping through the folders we had dumped from Voss' drive. "Yeah. I'll wrap up soon."

He tilted his head, studying me for a moment. "We've been at this for six hours, man. Chloe's gonna think I'm hiding a mistress in the office."

I smirked faintly. "Tell her I'm taller."

He chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The fatigue sat heavy in his shoulders. "We'll go over it again tomorrow with fresh eyes. Might catch something we missed."

"Maybe."

He started to turn, then paused. "We're chasing something real this time. Whatever's in there—we'll find it. Doesn't have to be tonight. Go home. Emma's probably worried about you."

"I will," I said. "Just feels like I'm close to something. I don't know what yet, but... it's itching at me."

Luke nodded slowly, like he knew exactly what that itch felt like. "Alright. Just don't stay too late. And don't start muttering to the monitors."

"Only if they talk back."

He huffed out a tired laugh and muttered, "Happy New Year, Parker."

"Yeah. What a start." I glanced up, half a smile tugging at my mouth. "Tell Chloe I said hi."

He gave a small nod, tapped the desk twice, and walked off—his footsteps fading toward the elevators.

I waited until I heard the doors slide shut before leaning back in my chair. The silence hit harder now, heavier, like something was settling between my shoulder blades and refusing to move.

I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering for a moment before opening our last thread.

Emma.

I called first, but the call went straight to voicemail.

"Hey. Just checking in. Long day. I... just wanted to hear your voice. Let me know you're okay."

I hung up but didn't put the phone away. Just stared at the screen for a few seconds longer. Then I typed out a quick text, You asleep already? Just wanted to hear your voice. It's been a long day. I miss you. Let me know you're okay.

No reply.

I set the phone down, face up, and watched the screen like something might shift, but there was nothing.

With a quiet breath, I pushed myself to stand.

The break room was empty. Someone had left the last pot of coffee on the burner way too long. It tasted like burnt asphalt—but I poured a cup anyway. I just needed something warm, something to hold.

When I came back, I didn't sit right away. I stood there, coffee in hand, staring at the wall of monitors like they owed me answers.

The drive from Voss was a mess—shaky angles, bad audio, hours of scattered footage. Most of it had already been reviewed, flagged, and tagged, No anomalies.

But something kept gnawing at me, like static under my skin.

I clicked into one of the cleared folders at random, hoping—maybe—I could catch something the others missed.

I scrubbed through clip after clip, folder after folder. Gallery wings packed with guests leaning too close to priceless art, drunk on champagne and self-importance.

A man in a velvet blazer argued loudly about whether Van Gogh was really a genius or just a "guy with a sad backstory and a paintbrush." Another guest tried to take a selfie with a Roman sculpture while their partner giggled uncontrollably behind them.

The footage was ridiculous, and accurate. Voss had been right about one thing—the elite treated the museum like their playground.

I was about to skip another chunk of footage when a flicker of movement in the corner of the screen caught my eye.

I paused, rewound it a bit, and zoomed in as much as I could.

The resolution was garbage—blurry, pixelated—but something about didn't sit right with me.

A waitress stepped into frame, champagne tray wobbling slightly in her hand. She moved fast, weaving through the crowd with unnerving precision. In the background, Bruce Huxley—the gallery manager—was gesturing animatedly to someone out of frame.

Then it happened. The waitress stumbled... or at least, she made it look like she did.

The tray tilted, champagne flew, and she collided with Huxley, spilling the golden liquid down the front of his custom-tailored suit.

Huxley recoiled, clearly flustered. The waitress appeared like she was fumbling, apologizing, trying to fix her mistake by pressing a white napkin against his chest.

Only her hand didn't move like someone panicking. It moved like someone performing.

It was controlled, precise. And I knew this must be her, the fake waitress, Amanda Wilson. Our thief. And this was the moment she stole Huxley's keycard.

She was smooth—so smooth the other guests barely glanced over.
But I could see it—while her right hand dabbed at the spill, her left slipped under Huxley's coat, fingers grazing just inside the breast pocket—right where his access card had been clipped.

Then she stepped back, bowed again, and vanished into the crowd before he could even curse at her.

I stared at the screen, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.

That wasn't clumsiness. It was theater.

And the woman? She never looked up. Not once. Her face stayed tilted just enough—hair tucked into a low, clean bun, a few loose strands falling perfectly across her cheek. Her posture was impeccable. She didn't linger like the others. She moved with too much purpose, too much calm.

She moved like someone with a mission.

I skipped forward, scrubbing through the footage with one goal now—her.

She showed up a few more times, but never close, never for long, like her instincts knew someone was watching, even if she had no idea Voss was filming.

In one frame, she was a shadow at the edge—far left, behind a cluster of donors, collecting empty glasses. Her face, once again, was completely obscured.

Then again, near the south wing, carrying a tray like it was an extension of her arm. Always smooth, always slipping past people like a ghost. Never too long in one place. Never the center of attention.

But the way she moved...

A chill crawled down my spine.

It wasn't just calculated. It was... familiar. Too familiar.

I paused on that frame where she carried a full tray, balanced effortlessly in one hand, no wobble, no tension, just total control.

And suddenly—I wasn't in the bullpen anymore. I was in my family's house upstate—Thanksgiving.

Kaylee had nearly knocked over a glass of wine. Emma caught it mid-air—swift, graceful, like her reflexes had been wired for it. She had laughed it off, said she used to work in restaurants as a teenager, that it was just muscle memory.

I hadn't thought much of it at the time. Maybe just a note tucked away in the back of my mind.

But now... Now I couldn't stop thinking about it.

My pulse pounded as I fast-forwarded, fingers tense on the keys, desperate for one more glimpse. Anything. Just one clear look.

And then—I found it. A mirrored pillar near the back of the gallery. She passed it without pausing, but for a single heartbeat—just one—she turned her head over her shoulder.

I hit pause.

There.

The mirror caught a sliver of her profile—a reflection warped by beveled glass

I zoomed in. Her face was turned halfway toward the camera—barely visible in the distorted reflection—but it was the only frame where her hair didn't hide it completely.

And the longer I stared, the more something inside me began to crack—quietly, deeply—like a fault line finally giving way.

The curve of her cheekbone. The slope of her jaw. The way she stood—calm, poised, almost... elegant.

I knew that shape.

I knew that movement.

I knew her.

My throat went dry.

My heartbeat was too loud in the quiet room. My hands moved on instinct. I pulled the image, took a still, cropped it, cleaned the edges as best I could. Then, I opened a secure message to the tech team.

Run this through image reconstruction. De-blur it. Enhance the angle. I need a face.

I hit send and leaned back, letting the silence settle like dust. My eyes stayed fixed on the frozen frame.

The woman in the mirror. That half-turned face that felt sharp as a knife pressed to my ribs.

I didn't breathe for a few seconds. Because somewhere deep in my gut, I already knew what the analysis would show.

It wouldn't just crack the case.

It would flip my whole goddamn life upside down.

And I wasn't sure if I was ready to face what came next.

But the clock was ticking, and the truth—ugly, brutal, and inevitable—was already on its way.