The blinds filtered soft light across Ms. Vargas's desk, cutting shadows through the layered files. Rowan stood on the opposite side, posture straight but his eyes carrying the weight of sleepless nights. A folder rested between them—thin, incomplete.
Forty miles away, Delaney sat at her mother's dining table. The house smelled like overcooked vegetables and dust. Her mother was in the kitchen, clattering dishes. Amore sat across from her, picking at her food.
The silence was thick. Uncomfortable.
More silence.
Her mother appeared with a casserole dish. "Eat, both of you. You look too thin, Delaney."
The conversation died again.
Delaney's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
She stood before anyone could respond.
The bathroom was small, outdated—floral wallpaper from the '80s, a sink that dripped constantly. Delaney locked the door behind her.
Exhaled.
She turned on the bath. Hot water rushing, filling the small space with steam and noise. They'd think she was decompressing. Taking a moment.
She sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled out her phone.
Operation Watchdog group chat:
She switched to her burner phone. The one for the messages.
Opened the thread to The Fighter's number.
Typed: She's painting right now. Yellow. Lots of yellow. Trying so hard to be happy.
Sent.
The bath water filled higher. Steam clouded the mirror.
Outside the door, muffled voices—her mother and Amore, saying something she couldn't make out.
Delaney typed: Don't worry. We're just watching. Just documenting. That's journalism.
Sent.
Then: Detroit looks good on you. Very authentic. The return to roots. Very compelling narrative.
Her hands were steady. Clinical. This was work.
Marshall: Target just called Elena. Told her to close curtains. He's terrified.
Perfect.
Delaney typed to The Fighter: Raul's at the diner on Michigan Ave. He ordered pie. Apple. He's alone. Very trusting.
To the group: Marshall, stay on Raul. Eyes on him at all times.
Marshall: Already on it.
A knock on the door.
Her mother's voice. Thin. Worried.
Footsteps retreating.
Delaney typed: See you at the fight. We'll be watching. We're always watching. :)
Sent.
Watched it change to "Delivered."
Then "Read."
Marshall: Subject is freaking out. Called Raul. They're both panicking.
Good.
Delaney stood, turned off the bath—full, unused—and flushed the toilet for effect. Ran the sink. Splashed water on her face.
Looked at herself in the steamed mirror.
Fifty-six. Hair graying. Lines around her eyes.
Sitting in her mother's bathroom orchestrating a breakdown.
She dried her face and unlocked the door.
Back at the table, her mother looked up. "Better?"
Amore was on her phone now, barely present.
Delaney took a small portion. Chewed mechanically.
Her phone buzzed. She left it in her pocket.
Delaney didn't respond.
Amore grabbed her coat, fumbling slightly with the buttons. Her professional composure was cracking at the edges. "The client moved the meeting. I can't miss it. The whole contract depends on it."
She looked at Victor, then at Delaney. Something desperate flickered across her face.
Their mother stood, uncertain. "But you just—"
Delaney followed her sister into the hallway, leaving Victor sitting on the couch with the uneaten cracker still in his hand.
Delaney looked back at the living room. Victor sat perfectly still, watching them through the doorway with those old, careful eyes.
She didn't wait for an answer. Just grabbed her bag and left, heels clicking quickly down the walkway to her waiting cab.
The door closed.
Delaney looked at Victor.
The boy was still holding the cracker.
Still waiting.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out.
No response from The Fighter.
But a new message from Marshall: Elena just left her apartment. Following at distance.
Delaney stared at the screen.
Then at Victor.
Then at her mother, who had already turned back to the kitchen, retreating into routine.
But she was already gone.
And Delaney was left standing in the hallway with a silent child and a phone full of surveillance updates.
Always waiting.
The door closed.
Silence again.
Just Delaney and her mother and the ticking clock and the dripping sink.
Delaney's jaw tightened.
Her phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
The machine never stopped.
Even here.
Even in this house with its floral wallpaper and dripping sink.
Even with her mother looking at her like she used to when Delaney was young and unreachable.
Her mother nodded. Didn't argue. Just looked tired.
Delaney grabbed her coat.
In the car, she checked her phone.
Fifteen new messages in the group chat.
The Fighter was running.
Elena was terrified.
Raul had abandoned his pie.
Everything was working.
Delaney drove home through empty streets, Jim Morrison playing low on the radio, and felt nothing but the cold satisfaction of control.
That's all it was.
That's all it had ever been.
She believed it completely.