"I have to go into the office," Campbell said. "Make yourself at home. Your room is down the hall to the left."
She nodded. She needed space to process this. The 'room' was bigger than her entire dorm. It had an en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub.
Campbell disappeared.
He didn't go to an office. He went to the study at the far end of the apartment. He locked the door.
Three men were waiting for him. Or rather, waiting on the large screens mounted on the wall.
"So," Preston said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "You actually did it. Civil Union?"
Wyatt, the one with the restless eyes, tapped a keyboard. A feed popped up on the side screen. It showed the living room. It showed her.
She was dusting a vase, moving with careful, terrified precision.
"That's her?" Wyatt asked. "The one you've been tracking for ten years?"
Campbell loosened his tie. He looked exhausted. "She is Mrs. Dunlap now."
"She's a patient, Cam," Xavier said. He was the doctor of the group. "Selective mutism. PTSD. You're taking advantage."
"I'm protecting her," Campbell snapped. "She doesn't talk. She's safe. She won't leak to the press."
"Bullshit," Preston said. "You married her because you're obsessed. Does she know you own the building? Does she know you own the bank that holds her aunt's mortgage?"
"No," Campbell said. "And she won't. To her, I'm just a guy with a decent job."
On the screen, she stopped moving. She was staring at a painting. A Rothko.
"Shit," Campbell muttered. "I forgot to cover the Rothko. She'll know it's real."
"She thinks it's a print," Wyatt said. "Look, she's checking for dust."
She wasn't checking for dust.
She was looking at the frame. There was a tiny disturbance in the air. A faint heat signature. She ran her finger along the edge.
Ventilation for electronics.
A camera.
She didn't react. She kept her face blank. She dusted the frame and walked away.
She went to her room. She locked the door. She opened her laptop. It was an old, heavy machine, but the software inside was military-grade.
She logged into the forum. The Surgeon.
A new message blinked.
Client: C.D. Symptoms: Severe migraine, resistance to triptans. Offer: 50k.
C.D.
Campbell Dunlap?
No. Too obvious. Probably just a coincidence.
She typed her reply. Accepted. Send medical history. No face-to-face.
In the study, Campbell's phone pinged.
"The Surgeon took the job," Wyatt said.
Campbell rubbed his temples. The pain was starting. A rhythmic thumping behind his eyes.
"Good," he said. "Wire the money."
He had no idea he was wiring fifty thousand dollars to the girl in the next room.
