I stepped back from the vault door and wiped my palms on my jeans. The air felt thicker down here—full of dust, secrets, and tension we didn't have the tools to cut through yet.
"Let's get back upstairs," I said. "This place is giving me that 'buried-alive' itch."
She didn't argue. We climbed up in silence, the creaking stairs feeling louder on the way out.
Back in the living room, she flopped onto the couch like someone coming up for air. I stayed standing, watching the curtains, double-checking the locks.
"They didn't come here to drink your coffee," I said finally. "That was a message."
Laura looked at me, eyes sharp now. "What kind of message?"
I met her gaze. "We know where you sleep."
She inhaled slowly through her nose, nodding once. "So what now?"
"We stay alert. Curtains drawn. Doors locked. No wandering around half-naked when someone knocks."
"Even if they're cute?"
I raised a brow. "Especially if they're cute."
She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. She was scared. Hell, I was scared too. But fear's only useful if you aim it right.
"From now on," I said, "we're careful. No guests. No loose lips. And if I say duck—you duck."
She nodded again, slower this time. Then leaned back and closed her eyes. "So when do we figure out what the hell's in that vault?"
I sat on the armrest beside her and looked down the hallway like it might whisper answers.
"Soon," I said. "But first—I've got calls to make."
She opened her eyes again, slowly, like the question had been sitting behind them the whole time. "Why keep us alive?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stared at the front door, at the chain lock swaying faintly from where I'd tested it. A good question. The kind that doesn't feel like it should have an answer.
"If Wesley wanted the house, he could've scared you off. If he wanted me out of the way, he had a damn good chance when I got jumped."
Laura sat forward. "So why didn't he?"
I looked at her. "Because we're useful. Or because killing makes noise—and Wesley doesn't like noise unless he's the one pulling the strings."
She shook her head. "So we're pawns."
"We're leverage," I corrected. "The house isn't empty. It's a locked box—and for some reason, he can't force it open. So he's waiting. Watching. Seeing who cracks first."
Laura swallowed. "And if we don't?"
I leaned in, voice low. "Then we make him crack."
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, to protest—but she didn't. She just leaned back again, arms hugging herself.
"Don't worry," I said. "Wesley's patient. But I'm not."
I stepped into the kitchen, away from Laura's worried eyes, and pulled out my phone. The number I needed wasn't saved, but I didn't have to dial it. It was burned into my brain now.
It rang once.
"Speak." Natasha's voice—crisp, cold, precise.
"I've got a name. Thought maybe you could tell me something."
"Try me."
"Daniel Goode."
A pause. A breath on the other end, sharp and short. "The chemistry professor? Yeah. Ran his mouth about clean energy by day, ran a dark lab by night. Nobody realized until after he died. Heart attack. Natural causes. No signs of foul play."
"Heart attack," I echoed.
"He was old, smoked cigars, probably lived on scotch. Why?"
"The cops mentioned him at Lynch's place"
Another pause. This one longer.
"Strange," Natasha muttered, more to herself than me. "Very strange."
Then the line went dead.
I stared at the screen, the call already ended. She didn't ask follow-ups. Didn't press. Which meant she was either already digging... or already nervous.
Either way, I had my answer.
Goode was real.
And his ghost was still living in Laura's basement.
I heard the knock—sharp, too casual to be cautious, too confident to ignore.
I stepped out of the kitchen, eyes locking with Laura's. She was still curled into the couch, her body tense but trying not to show it. I raised a hand and motioned for her to stay put.
She nodded.
Quiet steps brought me to the door. I placed my palm flat against it and pulled slowly, keeping my body tight against the frame. Just enough to peek.
It was Garry.
I exhaled hard through my nose and pulled the door open wider. "Jesus, Garry. Ever heard of texting first?"
He looked me over, gaze lingering just a second too long on my shoulder, then past me toward the living room.
"You alright?" he asked. "Heard anything new?"
I stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him. "You showing up like this is how rumors start, you know."
He gave a half-grin, but it didn't stick. He was wound up—more than usual.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Garry rubbed the back of his neck. "You're not gonna like it. Figured face-to-face was better."
I glanced back toward Laura, who was now sitting upright, listening but staying out of it.
I turned back to him. "Start talking."
Garry stepped further in, pacing a slow arc across the living room like he hadn't decided if he wanted to sit or bolt right back out. His fingers twitched by his side. That only happened when he was nervous, and I'd seen him fix a blown carb with a cigarette in his mouth and cops at the gate.
"They called me," he said.
"Who?"
He looked at me like I should've known.
"Cops," he said flatly. "Used the burner line."
That knocked the air out of my lungs. "How the hell did they get that number?"
Garry turned to face me, jaw tight. "I was hoping you'd tell me."
I raked a hand through my hair. "Shit. They asked for my number today, I gave it. Said it was just for procedure—said I might be a witness."
He stared at me, processing, then gave a slow nod. "Alright. That explains your end. Still doesn't explain why they're calling mine."
I stepped closer. "What did they ask?"
"Wanted to know about you. Background, employment, who you live with."
"And what did you tell them?"
Garry shrugged, but it wasn't casual. It was stiff. Calculated. "The usual. You're a mechanic. Work ethic's good, a little mouthy but smart. Said you rent a room with a family friend. That's it."
I glanced back toward Laura, who hadn't moved. Her eyes locked with mine, reading the tension like a book she already knew the ending to.
"They fishing?" I asked.
Garry looked at me like it wasn't even a question. "Hard."
My jaw tightened. "They think I'm more than a witness."
"They know you're not just a delivery boy," Garry said. "Someone tipped them off. Either that, or they're already sniffing Smith's trail, and your name's starting to light up."
I swallowed the curse burning in my throat.
"They're looking," I said.
Garry nodded. "Yeah. And it won't be long before they stop asking and start digging."
Laura stood then, finally, quiet as a whisper.
"Then we need to be two steps ahead," I said.
Garry finally stopped pacing and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out an envelope—thick, bulging, and unmistakably cash. He held it out like it weighed more than it should've.
"On the bright side," he muttered, "Smith sent this over. Dropped it at the garage with one of his guys. Five grand."
I took it and gave it a quick heft in my hand. Fat stacks. Crisp bills. No note.
"He doesn't do thank-yous, does he?" I said, cracking a tired smirk.
"Five grand is the thank-you," Garry replied. "And maybe a test."
My fingers tightened on the envelope. A test. A leash. A handshake from someone who keeps a knife in his other hand.
Laura was watching us both now, arms crossed over her chest, trying not to show how much she hated the idea of blood money keeping the lights on.
I looked back to Garry. "That all?"
"For now," he said. "But if I were you, I'd start being extra fucking careful. This game's getting real."
I nodded once.
Garry left without another word—just a glance, the kind that says you're in it now, kid. The door clicked shut, and silence folded back in.
I turned and dropped the envelope on the coffee table. Laura flinched at the sound it made.
I sank down beside her, exhaling slow. "That's five grand," I said. "Which means thirty left."
She didn't say anything. She was staring at the envelope like it might bite.
"But let's not kid ourselves," I added, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "Wesley doesn't give a shit about the money. He wants something else. Something in this house."
Laura looked at me, her face a mask of composure. Not calm—controlled. Tight at the edges.
I leaned back. "And as for Smith's car… I fucked that up. Bad. I'm guessing he already shaved that debt off the price tag of the Supra. Five grand for a lesson."
"You nearly got killed," she said quietly.
"Yeah." I looked at her. "And that was before they came here."
She looked away. I could see her jaw tightening, tongue pressing to her cheek.
"I didn't ask for you to fix any of this," she said, voice low.
"I know," I replied. "But I'm going to anyway."
"I got this," I told her, steady and low, like I needed her to believe it just as much as I needed to say it. I turned toward her, hand resting on her thigh—gentle, grounding. "You need company tonight?"
She looked at me, something soft flickering behind her eyes. Tired. Frayed. But still standing.
"But just snuggling," she said, almost teasing. Almost.
I smirked, brushing my thumb across the denim of her jeans. "Wouldn't dream of overstepping."
She rolled her eyes but stood up anyway, tugging me by the hand. "Come on then, trouble."
I followed.
We didn't say much as we stepped into her room. The air inside was warmer than the rest of the house, like it hadn't been opened up all day. Laura peeled off her jeans in one smooth motion, left them folded on the chair, then climbed onto the bed in a tank top and black boyshorts—nothing fancy, just what she lived in.
I kicked off my boots, stripped down to my boxers, and slid in behind her.
The mattress dipped, and she shifted—instinctively, like she'd been waiting on that weight all night. Her back pressed to my chest, the curve of her ass settling just right against me. My arm found her waist. Familiar. Natural.
She let out a breath. "You're warm," she mumbled.
"Yeah." I tucked my face into the space behind her ear, breathing her in. Shampoo and sweat and something sweet beneath it.
For a while, that was it. No words. No movements except the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing syncing with mine. My hand splayed over her stomach, not moving, just holding. Just being there.
"You alright?" I asked, voice rough from everything.
"Getting there," she whispered. "It's easier… like this."
I didn't push. Didn't need to. I understood what she meant.
Her fingers slid over my forearm, tracing the edge of a vein. Not sexual. Not innocent. Just touch for the sake of knowing I was real.
She adjusted, just slightly, and I felt the press of her thighs tighten around mine. Her skin, warm under my palm. Her body, softer now, less guarded.
"I still can't believe they were here," she said into the dark.
"They're gone," I murmured. "And I'm not."
Silence.
Then: "You're not gonna leave, are you?"
I kissed the back of her neck, soft. "Not unless you kick me out."
She hummed, low and sleepy. "Then stay."
And I did.
I woke to soft fingers brushing my cheek—and the distinct sound of my ringtone, muffled but close. My eyes cracked open to see Laura standing at the edge of the bed, phone pressed to her ear, her tank top slightly twisted from sleep.
"Yes," she said into the receiver, eyes on me. "He's awake now."
She handed me the phone before I could sit up. "It's some lady called Natasha."
That sobered me. I sat upright, rubbing at my face as I took the phone from her fingers. Her hand lingered a second longer than needed.
"Yeah?" I said into the receiver, voice rough and low.
"Good morning, sunshine." Natasha's voice was sharp and clear, like the heel of a stiletto clicking across marble. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything too intimate."
I looked at Laura—still standing there, arms folded under her chest, watching me with raised eyebrows and a hint of amusement.
"Just get to the point."
She chuckled. "Smith wants to see you. Noon. Same warehouse."
"And?"
"And he expects you to be punctual. You've earned a bit of attention, golden boy. Let's hope you live up to it."
The call ended before I could respond.
I dropped the phone to the bed and exhaled through my nose.
Laura smirked. "Natasha, huh?"
"She's got knives for eyelashes."
"Sounds hot."
I looked at her. She was trying to keep it light, but I could see the flicker of concern behind the sass.
"I'll be fine," I told her. "I've handled worse."
"Mm. You say that like it's a badge of honor." She stepped back toward the bed and leaned down, brushing her lips against my cheek. "Shower's yours first. I'll make coffee."
Then she turned and padded out of the room like she hadn't just dropped warmth in my chest and a storm in my lap.
Noon with Smith.
Time to get dressed. And maybe figure out how to stay alive a little longer.
I showered, got dressed—same checked shirt, different day. The bruise on my cheek was fading, but the story behind it hadn't.
Laura handed me coffee without a word. Strong, black, exactly how I needed it. She was still in that top, sitting on the arm of the couch, watching me like she didn't want to—but couldn't help it. We didn't talk. Didn't need to.
I downed the last sip, set the mug in the sink, grabbed my keys from the counter. Just before I opened the door, I looked over my shoulder.
"Lock it behind me."
She nodded.
And then I was out—sun high, streets humming, bike purring under me like it was part of my bones.
Garry's garage wasn't far, but the ride gave me a few minutes to settle into the day. There was a weight to it, like the air was thicker now. Natasha's voice still echoed in my ear, and I didn't like being summoned.
I pulled in, killed the engine, and walked through the side door of the garage. Garry looked up from under the hood of some souped-up Mustang.
"You're early," he muttered.
"I'm getting tired of being late."
He handed me a rag without asking and nodded toward the bench. "They got you working steady now, huh?"
"Something like that."
"Be careful," he said, wiping his hands. "You keep showing up with money and bruises, people start to notice."
"Let 'em notice. I'm not hiding."
He studied me for a second, then jerked his head toward the far corner of the garage. "The car's gassed. Take the Skyline."
I raised an eyebrow. "Since when do I get the fun toys?"
Garry snorted. "Since Smith's girl called and said you'd need something fast and flashy. Said you're meeting the man himself."
Right. Warehouse rendezvous. High-stakes pissing contest.
I walked over, ran a hand along the blue metal of the car's hood. Sleek, sharp. Dangerous.
Just how I liked it.
I turned back from the Skyline, keys already in hand.
"Oh—and while you're out," Garry added, "leave your bike here. Ben's swinging by today. Says he's got that quickshifter finally."
I raised an eyebrow. "No bargaining this time?"
Garry shrugged. "Guy named his price. I didn't argue. Figured you'd want a free hand next time someone tries to shoot at you."
I smirked. "Thoughtful."
"Just don't get the Skyline totaled."
"No promises."