The pattern. That one I can plan for. Contingencies are already forming.
But yesterday.
The way she froze when that man walked into her courtroom. Not like this, not a woman processing threat assessment with sharp understanding. But like a woman who'd seen a ghost.
Her body knew him.
Feared him.
I don't know what Adrian is to her yet.
But I know the difference between a woman afraid of dying and a woman afraid of a man.
I filed it yesterday. Operational discipline.
It will not stay filed.
"You good?" Jax asks.
I look at him. He's still in his chair, watching me with that easy grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes now.
"Yeah," I say.
"Liar." He stands, stretches. "But I respect the commitment to the bit."
He leaves.
The room empties around my stillness.
I stay in the chair.
One problem has a solution. Perimeter. Protocol. Controlled variables.
The other problem has a name now. Adrian. But a name isn't enough. I need to know why her hands shook when she said it. Why her body knew to be afraid before her brain caught up.
I'll find out.
And then I'll decide what to do about it.
eight
Angelina
The defense attorney is making his argument. Something about the chain of custody. I've heard the phrase twice now and can't repeat a word of what he's been saying.
My pen moves across the notepad. Not notes but interlocking squares instead. It's the law school habit I never broke, the one my property professor said meant I was either thinking deeply or not at all. Today it's the latter.
I count the exits for the third time since sitting down. Three, the same three as always. Side door behind the bench, main gallery doors, the fire exit near the jury box that sticks in humidity. I've sat behind this bench for six years. I've never counted exits three times in the first twenty minutes of a hearing before.
Dio, when did I become this person?
The thought burns low in my stomach. Five days of Cole Tanaka in my life and I'm scanning rooms the way he scans them, observing the faces in the gallery, checking posture, looking for the person who doesn't belong. The man in thethird row has been adjusting his watch for the past six minutes. The woman near the door keeps checking her phone under her purse.
They're bored, not armed. Stop it, Angelina.
Under my robe, my fingers find the St. Christopher medal. Three touches, the cold metal warming against my thumb. Not prayer, but inventory. The same impulse that makes me check locks three times and count Chesca's breaths at night.
Papa used to say faith was a comfort. This isn't faith. This is survival dressed up as ritual.