Chapter 167: It Depends On You.
I dressed fast and left the apartment.
Late already. I took the stairs up to the fourth floor two at a time, boots hitting each step hard. Sherry sat somewhere in the back of everything, quiet and heavy.
She hadn’t knocked on my door. She always knocked.
Either she passed early or she’s still inside, I thought, reaching her floor, chest tightening.
I tried her on the communication watch. The screen glowed coldly against my wrist. No answer. Just the soft beep of an unanswered call.
I stood at her door. The hallway light cast a long shadow across the floor in front of me. I thought about last night.
Sherry, I thought. I know you built up to that moment. I know what it cost you to leave the door open..
I knocked once. The sound echoed down the empty hallway. Nothing. I tried the handle. Locked. She was gone.
I stood there longer than I needed to, one hand still on the cool metal of the doorknob, staring at the seam where the door met the frame. The silence pressed in. Then I turned and started back down the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
She’s at headquarters, I told myself, jaw tight. I’ll explain everything. Not the mission, not Carrise, not the system. But enough. She’ll understand me. She always understands me.
I kept moving down the stairs and tried to believe it. The weight of the night before followed me all the way down, clinging like smoke.
****
Becky was already in the car when I reached headquarters, sitting behind the wheel with the specific composure of someone who had been ready for a while and had opinions about it. The engine was idling low, her fingers tapping once on the steering wheel.
"Good morning," I said, leaning down to the open window.
"Good morning." Her face was doing well — neutral, controlled. "You’re late."
"It’s literally my second day," I said. "You’ll get used to it."
She looked at me the way people look at things they intend to correct later. "Bala will change that. Trust me."
"Okay, Becky." I straightened. "Have you seen Sherry?"
"Your girlfriend?" she asked, one eyebrow lifting.
I looked at her.
"Don’t give me that look." She laughed, short and dry. "Your girlfriend?"
"Yeah," I said, because arguing the terminology was going to take longer than I had.
"Inside, last I saw." She tilted her head toward the building. "Partner."
"Okay." I was already moving.
"Don’t be long, Bram," she called after me. "We have a mission."
"I know," I said, and went in.
The mission room was quiet. Ernesto was inside, sitting relaxed in one of the chairs, legs stretched out, the easy posture of someone waiting without urgency. Sherry’s partner, which meant they hadn’t left yet, which meant she was still somewhere in this building.
"Nesto," I said. "Sherry around?"
He looked up with that easy smile that seemed to be his default setting. "Saw her down the hall."
I nodded once and turned, boots echoing off the polished floor as I headed deeper into the corridor. The overhead lights hummed steadily, casting clean white reflections that slid across the walls with every step. My pulse was louder than I wanted it to be.
I found her near the equipment lockers, back turned, hands moving through an open compartment. Her short brunette hair caught the light. The line of her shoulders told me she already knew I was there before I said a word.
"Sherry."
She turned. Her face was carefully neutral for a moment, then something quieter moved through it. Not anger.
"Hey," she said. Her fingers stayed on the locker door, gripping the edge a little too tightly.
"I was looking for you," I said. "How are you?"
"Good." She stood straight. "You?"
"Good."
Our eyes met. She gave a small smile that didn’t reach everything it usually reached.
"I’m sorry about last night," I said.
"No, I’m sorry," she said. "I moved too fast."
"You didn’t," I said. "Hope we good?"
"Yeah," she said. But she wasn’t the same. I could feel the distance in how she was standing, the inch or two that wasn’t usually there.
"The door was open all night," she said. Not accusing. Just telling me.
That landed harder than I expected.
"All night?" I said.
"Yes. I thought you might reconsider and come back."
"I’m sorry," I said again.
"It’s okay, Bram."
"It’s not," I said. "Is the door still open?"
She looked at me for a moment. "Doors are meant to be opened and closed," she said. "It depends on you."
"Tonight," I said. "A date. Just us."
"A date?" She repeated it like she was testing the word. Then: "I’m open to it."
"Okay."
Nesto came down the corridor at a half-run, heading toward us.
"There’s your partner," I said.
She smiled. The real one this time, small but present.
Nesto reached us. "Bram, I thought you’d already left." He held out an envelope. "Lord Bala left this for you. It’s your next target."
"Thank you," I said.
He turned back and Sherry fell into step beside him.
"We’ll be in touch," she said over her shoulder.
I watched them go and held the envelope. The paper felt heavier than it should have. I thought about a door that had been open all night. I started toward the exit.
One thing at a time, I thought. Fix what you can fix. Move toward what you have to move toward.
I reached the car and slid into the passenger seat. Becky was already at the wheel, one hand resting on the gear shift, blonde braid draped over her shoulder. The engine was idling with a low, steady growl.
"That was quick," she said, glancing sideways at me. "Thought you two were going to fuck first."
"Stop that," I said.
I settled in and noticed the back seat. Two swords lay there, sheathed, the hilts catching the morning light.
"Why two swords?" I asked. "What’s the mission?"
"We’re arresting an outlaw," she said, pulling out smoothly into traffic. "We’ve tried before and failed. Not this time."
"An outlaw that needs two swords you won’t even use is a serious one," I said, watching her face. "Male or female?"
"Female," she said. "Last time Max and I had her cornered and she slipped right through us."
"Slipped through how?"
"Bitch just disappeared," Becky said, making a sharp turn. The tires hummed against the road.
I opened the envelope. Mary Stam’s face looked back at me — sharp eyes, steady expression, the woman who had staked Vince in the forest and pulled me out of something that would have killed me.
Of course, I thought. Of course they want her.
I held the photograph a moment longer than I needed to, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper.
"You know her?" Becky asked, eyes flicking toward me.
"No," I said, and looked at the road ahead.
