Paranoia was going to eat me alive at this rate. My brain was starting to interpret every set of eyes as an omen, every coincidence as a conspiracy, every carriage as a den laden with ominous men offering life-changing experiences.

  Next thing I knew, I'd be deducing the existential motives of a stray cat for looking in my direction.

  I sighed, tossed a few coins to the fruit seller, and bought another apple.

  And then, just as I turned away from the stall—

  A cat.

  A fucking cat. Sitting on the low wall across from me, staring straight at me with deep, knowing disapproval, like it had been listening to my thoughts and was now profoundly disappointed in my existence.

  I froze.

  The cat did not. It just kept watching.

  I narrowed my eyes. …Did I just jinx myself?

  The cat blinked.

  I took a slow step to the side.

  The cat's head tilted.

  Alright. This was officially too much for me today.

  With a sigh, I tossed the cat a piece of apple and walked away before it could start talking or something.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gideon's place was pristine—orderly to the point of sterility. The kind of place that looked curated rather than lived in. The sign above the door gleamed with recent polish.

  I knocked once and stepped inside.

  Gideon barely looked up from his ledger, but his gaze took an extra second to scan my face.

  "You look like you crawled out of a grave."

  I've been through it last night.

  "Nice to see you too," I muttered, shrugging off my coat and draping it over the chair. "Long night."

  He didn't press, though his brow furrowed slightly. "Fontaine?"

  "No mistress," I said, slumping into the seat—and immediately regretted it as my buttcheeks were also sore from the whole freezing experience in the morning.

  "Just shady deals in a warehouse."

  Gideon tapped his pen against the desk. "So his wife's just overly suspicious?"

  "Or overly observant." I also decided to leave the whole cursed book and creepy polite man out of the report.

  Gideon nodded. "Fine." A pause. "I'll report back that we found nothing."

  I kept my face blank. No need to overshare.

  Instead, he reached for another file. "New case."

  I groaned. "Shit, Gideon. Do you sleep?"

  "Better than you do, I guess."

  And with that, another job began.

  ~ ~ ~

  The walk to Eleanor Pike's home was uncomfortable and laboured. King's Quarter was loud and oppressive as always, weighing in on me from every direction like the city itself was attempting to suffocate me. Or perhaps it was me. Perhaps it was residual fatigue taking its toll on my nerves. Perhaps it was the book, an abstract weight in my jacket. Or perhaps—maybe—it was just that everything was louder today. The sounds of the city were a dense, jarring din in my mind, a scratching claw clawing at my already ragged temper.

  Gideon, naturally, was unbothered. The man had the emotional range of a well-disciplined brick. Unflappable. A fine contrast to the simmering annoyance running through my nerves.

  By the time we got to Pike's home, I was preparing for the usual—grief, fatigue, perhaps subdued resignation. What I hadn't anticipated was defiance.

  Eleanor Pike wasn’t young, wasn’t old. Just worn. Dark hair pulled back, a sharp face that had probably been softer once. No makeup, no ornamentation, just practicality. She had the look of someone who had spent years pushing forward because stopping wasn’t an option.

  She moved out of the way and allowed us in silently. The kitchen was compact but tidy in that tough, forced manner achievable only by attempting to stay occupied. Two cups stood together on the table. One had been used. Not by mistake. A habit. A refusal. I looked over at Gideon, but if he saw the same thing, he said nothing.

  Eleanor pulled a chair out but didn’t sit. She just gripped the back of it, fingers white-knuckled, as though holding onto something solid kept her on her feet.

  "I know what they're thinking," she said at last, her voice strained. "That he eloped. That he left me for another woman, or just disappeared, or..." Her hand clenched into a fist around the chair.

  "Martin wouldn't. He wouldn’t."

  The confidence in her tone didn’t falter. It challenged either of us to disagree with her.

  Gideon was unimpressed, and that was contrary to my own increasing sense that this woman would fight against reality itself if necessary.

  "Did he mention anything strange before he left?" I asked. "Did you see anything strange?"

  She blew air across her nose. "We've been together since we were children. We were poor. Same street, same hunger, same struggles to survive." Her eyes didn't flicker. "Martin doesn’t flee. And we weren’t fighting. If anything, we were better than ever."

  I exchanged a look with Gideon. Most disappearances begin with a rupture of some relationship. A secret, a debt, an affair.

  Yet Eleanor wasn't attempting to persuade herself. She actually thought this.

  Gideon broke the silence, speaking first. "Has anyone been here searching for him? Any creditors, angry employers?"

  A pause. Brief. Just a flicker. But it was there.

  "No."

  Liar.

  Gideon didn't fault her for it. He just looked at her, pen tapping his notebook in that maddening patience of his.

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  "Has he been behaving strangely?" he asked. "More nervous than normal?"

  She paused again. A breath held just a fraction too long.

  "He's been… stressed. Work's been difficult. The docks have been sluggish."

  Slow docks meant slow pay. Slow pay meant desperate men. And desperate men do foolish things.

  I moved back from the wall, shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets. "Alright. We'll interview his co-workers. See what they have to say."

  But I didn't budge. Something was still hiding behind her eyes, just out of grasp.

  She wasn't finished.

  I allowed the silence to hang, just long enough to have her think and search for whatever was on her mind.

  And then she breathed in sharply—a quick, little breath. A realization.

  But instead of words, her lips closed tight as if she wanted to swallow the thought down.

  Yeah. Not letting that slide.

  Gideon, normally so patient, inclined his head. "Mrs. Pike, if it's only a minor detail, you have to tell us. Anything will help."

  She breathed out abruptly. "It's—it's nothing, probably."

  I lifted an eyebrow. "Nothing is better than nothing."

  Her fists clenched on the chair. "It's just… I remembered something. It was stupid." She shook her head, obviously irritated with herself for bringing it up in the first place.

  I was quiet, waiting.

  At last, she breathed out. "A few weeks ago, he brought home meat."

  I frowned. "And?"

  "And fruit. Good fruit. Fruit that's too much when the docks are slow." She shook her head, returning her eyes to the table. "It was my birthday, so I didn't pay much attention at first. But the next day, I asked him about it. He said he'd been saving."

  I looked over at Gideon. We both knew the docks weren't faring well at the moment.

  "He never was a spender," she went on, her voice hardly above a whisper. "We both started from nothing. We struggled for what we have. We don't waste things."

  "And you didn't believe him," I replied.

  She swallowed. "I did want to. But then, a few days later, I heard him arguing with someone outside. I couldn't make much of it—he wouldn't say who it was. Only that it was something to do with work."

  Her hand tightened on the chair. "Martin… he was talking about having a baby. About being ready. But if the docks weren't doing well, he should have been saving, not spending. I just—" Her voice broke, but she continued. "I just don't think it adds up."

  No. It didn't.

  A man in debt does not start planning a family.

  Gideon's voice was low but firm. "Mrs. Pike, did he ever mention any names? Anybody he was worried about?"

  She shook her head. "No. But I know Martin. If there was something wrong, he wouldn't tell me. He would try to deal with it on his own."

  And now he was gone.

  I breathed out, shrugging my shoulders. "Okay. We'll speak with his colleagues. Find out what they say."

  Eleanor sighed as though she had been holding her breath throughout the entire conversation. She nodded, whispered a soft thank you, and led us outside.

  The minute the door closed, Gideon whispered, "She just gave us a name without even realizing it."

  I released a slow breath. "Yeah." My jaw tightened. "The only people handing out money right now are debt collectors."

  ~ ~ ~

  The docks were as dirty as I remembered. Salt. Fish. Sweat. The scent was so characteristically terrible it was nearly personal—like the whole place existed to offend me.

  Work did not stop here, not even when one of their own disappeared. Crates were moved, voices bellowed over the water, and the steady groan of wood rang out. The machine continued to turn. It always did.

  We approached a group of dockworkers who were lounging beside a stack of crates. They spotted Gideon before he ever said a word—because Gideon didn't belong.

  He carried that sort of presence. The type that would make individuals double-take, make them rethink their choices, make them choose whether or not it was worth the trouble to disregard him.

  "Where is Martin Pike?" Gideon inquired, his voice smooth and unruffled, as if he had all the time in the world to wait. "Is he employed here?"

  A lean, wiry man with a scar on his forearm wiped his hands on his trousers and nodded curtly. "Yeah. Ain't seen him since Tuesday."

  "What do you know about him?"

  "He's a guy. Works hard, keeps to himself."

  "Not hard enough," snarled another man.

  Scar Forearm looked at the second man but said nothing.

  I concentrated. Not hard enough for what?

  I moved in closer. "Did Martin owe somebody money?"

  The reaction was immediate.

  Scar Forearm twitched so violently he nearly dropped the crate he was holding. The young man jumped, jerking away as though I had just popped up out of nowhere.

  What the hell?

  I'd had people recoil from me previously—occurred daily. My lack of visibility, or visibility, I suppose, made me an easy person to overlook. But it wasn't that. It was more severe. As if I'd jumped from a dark alleyway out at them.

  Scar Forearm let out a rough huff, the surprise passing, but the young one still gazed at me in open-mouthed wonder, as if he could not quite figure out when I had got there.

  Silence. Thick silence. The type that weighs down the air.

  Scar Forearm wiped at his face, hardening his voice. "He made some bad bets. Owed the wrong people. We told him to keep an eye on his back, but…" He shrugged. "Some men don't listen."

  Smart people do dumb shit if they're desperate enough. Some open boxes and talk to cursed books.

  Gideon was drawing out a notepad, stretching to a fresh page with deliberate, almost languid, motions. "Who?"

  Scar Forearm paused. Then: "Curtis Holloway."

  The name landed like a lead weight in the gut.

  Holloway wasn't a loan shark; he was a collector—and not necessarily of the monetary variety. This man had his fingers in everything from extortion to trafficking. If Pike had money coming to him, he was either in hiding or already deceased.

  Gideon wrote the name down slowly and deliberately before looking up once more.

  "Warehouse we go."

  I guess most people who ever came to the dock knew where to find Curtis since they'd tell you to avoid a particular warehouse.

  Brilliant. Since nothing ever went wrong in a dilapidated warehouse off the docks.

  ~ ~ ~

  The warehouse reeked of sweat and secrets, the sort of place that would give you tetanus just from staring at it. Damp wood, rotten iron, and the faint but unmistakable odour of something that had once been alive and wanted to be so again.

  I trailed Gideon inside, my senses on high alert. Something was off. Not the usual this is a crime den sort of thing, but deeper. It was as if the air had mass. I could feel something watching our direction, but not in the classical sense. Not by men, not by eyes. By something else.

  A man stood with his back against a crate, radiating an aura of having all day. Tall. Big. The type of guy who could fill up a doorway simply by standing in it. But it wasn't his size that made my blood run cold.

  It was the way he moved.

  Too fluid. Too deliberate. As if he was acutely aware of every inch of his body, every muscle shift, every breath he took.

  Gideon, naturally, was not impressed. "We're looking for Curtis Holloway."

  The man barely reacted. He took his time, as if it was a favour to respond to us. His eyes shifted to Gideon first, scrutinizing him, assessing how much of a threat he might pose.

  And then they didn’t move to me.

  That was the problem.

  I was right there. Only a few steps behind Gideon. Not hiding. Not being sneaky.

  And yet—

  He did not look at me.

  Didn't greet me.

  Did not appear to notice me.

  Until I spoke.

  "We can wait." Straightforward and concise. Maybe a bit too blunt.

  The man's gaze darted to me.

  It was quick, almost too sharp. As if something had just clicked in his mind.

  For a second, the smile on his face wavered, as though he wasn't sure if he had dreamed me up or I had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

  I met his stare, my face expressionless, but my brain working overtime.

  He hadn't noticed me.

  That could mean he was slipping—unlikely, considering his demeanour—or I was getting better.

  Or worse. Depending on the way you considered it.

  Not exactly a comforting notion.

  The man chuckled slowly, covering up whatever had momentarily disturbed him. "Suit yourselves."

  Gideon, never a fan of urgency, provided an aggravatingly slow nod before he went deeper, passing by the man. As if he hadn't just walked into a warehouse and stirred up a man who very probably had a past involving violence.

  I did, pushing my hands into my pockets, my fingers encountering the cold and hard cover of the book. Waiting.

  Gideon walked ahead of me, his pace slow and measured, and my mind curled in on itself like a twisting, turning knot. The silence between us didn't relax; it vibrated. It swelled.

  I licked my dry lips. "There was something wrong with that guy."

  Gideon barely glanced at me. "Lots of men in his line of work are."

  "No, I mean—" I broke off. "He didn't see me. Not right away."

  Gideon did not relent. "You're not exactly memorable, Kieran."

  It was the sort of teasing shot he always took at me, but now it was different. I was different.

  I let out a gentle sigh. "Gideon."

  He turned to me at last, serene and inscrutable. "Yes?"

  I watched his face, waiting for something—anything. A flicker of comprehension, a suggestion that he felt something was wrong.

  Nothing.

  Or perhaps I simply wasn't paying attention.

  My stomach twisted. "Forget it."

  The sensation didn't leave. If anything, it settled in deeper. Under the rot and salt of the docks, under the clang of crates being shifted and men yelling orders, something was poking at the edges of my mind.

  Like fingers on a windowpane.

  Like a breath on the nape of my neck.

  Martin Pike was a desperate man on the run from a debt.

  That was all this was supposed to be.

  So why did I get the feeling that I had just burst in on something I wasn't meant to?

  And why did I have the uncomfortable feeling that someone had just become conscious?