This wasn’t something he could handle alone. And for the first time since that first Tuesday morning, the stakes felt high enough that failure wasn’t an option.
The confrontation came sooner than expected.
Two days later, Garrett found himself standing in front of Marlene Hartwell’s apartment—a narrow, aging building that smelled faintly of damp wood and old paint. He hadn’t come alone. Shadow stood a few steps behind him, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the street with quiet efficiency. Boulder leaned against the hood of Garrett’s bike, arms crossed, presence solid and immovable.
Marlene opened the door cautiously. She looked exactly as Sadi had described—tired in a way that went beyond lack of sleep, the kind of exhaustion that settled into a person’s bones and refused to leave. But there was strength there too, visible in the way she held herself, in the way her eyes sharpened the moment she recognized who was standing on her doorstep.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said immediately. Not afraid. Just wary.
“Probably not,” Garrett admitted. “But we need to talk.”
She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Make it quick. I have to leave for work.”
The apartment was small but clean. Sparse. The kind of place where every item had a purpose and nothing existed without reason. Garrett took it in with a single glance—the worn couch, the small table, the stack of schoolbooks neatly arranged in the corner. Evidence of someone doing their best with very little.
“Preston Ashworth came to see you,” Garrett said, skipping pretense.
Marlene’s shoulders stiffened. “How do you know that?”
