Chapter 102: THE MAN WITHOUT A NETWORK

WEDNESDAY

7:06 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

At 7:06 Wednesday morning, Aaron Mercer discovered that the federal government had not ruined his life.

His washing machine had.

He stood barefoot in his laundry room, staring at approximately two inches of water spreading across the tile.

The machine made a noise that sounded expensive.

Then it stopped.

Aaron stared at it.

The machine stared back.

"Don’t."

It gurgled.

Water seeped farther beneath his shoe.

Aaron closed his eyes.

For most of his adult life, problems had existed in categories.

Operational.

Financial.

Security.

Political.

Intelligence.

Legal.

And, occasionally, catastrophic.

A leaking washing machine belonged to none of them.

Which somehow made it worse.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

REBECCA: Reminder. Tomorrow. 9:00 A.M. U.S. Attorney’s Office.

Aaron glanced at the message.

Thursday.

Not today.

Tomorrow morning, prosecutors would present their preliminary charging position and cooperation assessment. Rebecca would be beside him. Nothing final would be signed. No judge would be waiting.

Today was Wednesday.

Today, apparently, was plumbing.

The machine gurgled again.

"I’m warning you."

It leaked harder.

Aaron grabbed two towels from the shelf and dropped them onto the floor.

Then he opened his contacts.

He scrolled automatically.

Names passed beneath his thumb.

People who could obtain documents in three countries.

People who could arrange secure transportation without creating a digital trail.

People who knew customs officials, private pilots, investigators, analysts, former intelligence officers, bankers, cybersecurity specialists—

Aaron stopped.

Half of those people were now witnesses.

The other half were people Rebecca had specifically told him not to contact unless cleared.

His old encrypted directory no longer existed.

The emergency channels were dead.

The Architect had been dismantled.

Aaron stared at his phone.

Water reached the edge of the laundry-room doorway.

"This is humiliating."

He searched online.

WASHING MACHINE LEAKING FROM BOTTOM

Results appeared immediately.

Aaron narrowed his eyes.

One suggested a drain hose.

Another suggested a pump.

Another suggested a door seal.

A fourth informed him that his appliance might be "trying to tell him something."

Aaron closed that page immediately.

"My appliance doesn’t have feelings."

The washer gurgled.

Aaron pointed at it.

"You don’t."

He found the building-management number.

Then stopped.

He knew the building manager.

Technically.

Aaron had once obtained a complete background report on him before moving into the apartment.

Employment history.

Debt.

Property records.

Prior addresses.

Divorce.

One civil lawsuit.

A boating license.

Aaron knew all of that.

He did not know the man’s first name.

He stared at the contact information.

RESIDENT SERVICES

Aaron put the phone down.

He could handle this himself.

Probably.

⸻

7:41 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

He could not handle it himself.

The shutoff valve had stopped the water.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that Aaron had discovered the machine had apparently been leaking longer than he realized.

The baseboard behind it was swollen.

A section of flooring had begun to lift.

This was no longer simply his appliance.

It was building property.

Which meant he had to report it.

Aaron stood in the kitchen with coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

He called Rebecca.

She answered on the fourth ring.

"If you’re calling to discuss tomorrow, don’t."

"Good morning to you too."

"It’s seven forty-one."

"You’re awake."

"I have clients who commit crimes during business hours. I like to prepare."

Aaron looked toward the laundry room.

"I have a situation."

Silence.

Then Rebecca’s voice changed.

"What happened?"

"My washing machine is leaking."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

"Your what?"

"Washing machine."

"You called your federal criminal defense attorney because your washing machine is leaking."

"When you phrase it like that, it sounds inappropriate."

"It is inappropriate."

"I need a contractor."

"Then call one."

"I can’t."

"Why?"

Aaron paused.

Rebecca waited.

"My approved-contact situation is complicated."

"Your plumber isn’t a co-conspirator."

"I don’t have a plumber."

"Then find one."

"I used to have someone who handled residential logistics."

Rebecca went silent.

Aaron immediately regretted the sentence.

"You had someone," she repeated, "who handled residential logistics."

"It was more efficient."

"What does that even mean?"

"If a property required maintenance, someone arranged it."

"Who?"

"Depends on the property."

"How many properties?"

"That’s irrelevant."

"That means more than five."

Aaron drank his coffee.

Rebecca sighed.

"Call your building."

"I was considering an independent contractor."

"Why?"

Aaron didn’t answer.

Rebecca understood anyway.

"Oh, absolutely not."

"I haven’t proposed anything."

"You don’t want to call the building because you don’t want strangers entering your apartment."

Aaron’s jaw tightened.

"That is not the issue."

"It is exactly the issue."

"The government has collected sensitive materials from this residence."

"And?"

"And I would prefer to control access."

"Then be present while maintenance is there."

"There are still documents—"

"Your protected legal materials should already be secured."

"They are."

"Then what’s the problem?"

Aaron stared toward the hallway.

The problem was that the old version of this situation would have taken one message.

Someone vetted would arrive.

Someone else would know exactly what that person had access to.

No questions.

No uncertainty.

No strangers.

No asking.

No dependence.

"I can find someone," Aaron said.

Rebecca’s tone sharpened.

"Using what?"

"Public information."

"Aaron."

"Perfectly legal public information."

"What are you planning to do?"

"Nothing."

"That word has never reassured me when you say it."

Aaron set down his coffee.

"I’ll find a licensed repair company, verify ownership, licensing, insurance, litigation history, employee background—"

"No."

He stopped.

"No?"

"No."

"Rebecca—"

"You are not running intelligence checks on appliance technicians."

"I said public information."

"You said employee background."

"For security."

"For a washing machine."

"There are confidential documents in this apartment."

"Locked away?"

"Yes."

"Then stop trying to turn a maintenance appointment into an operation."

Aaron’s expression hardened.

"I am allowed to know who enters my home."

"Yes. You are allowed to ask the company who they’re sending."

"That’s not sufficient."

"It is for millions of people every day."

"I am not millions of people."

"Correct. Millions of people aren’t currently under federal scrutiny for running an unauthorized intelligence network."

Aaron went quiet.

Rebecca continued, calmer now.

"You asked me yesterday what you were supposed to practice while waiting."

"I don’t remember agreeing to practice anything."

"Today you practice having a broken washing machine."

"That is absurd."

"Call your building."

"What if they send someone I don’t know?"

"They will."

Aaron stared at the wall.

Rebecca waited.

Then she said, "This is the part where you ask the appropriate person for help."

"I called you."

"No. You called me so I would become the appropriate person."

Aaron frowned.

"There is a difference."

"A very large one."

He almost argued.

Then stopped.

Because there was.

Rebecca was his attorney.

She was not his assistant.

Not his operations coordinator.

Not his security officer.

Not his replacement Architect network.

"You’re refusing to help me."

"I am helping you."

"This feels remarkably similar to not helping me."

"Call resident services."

Aaron sighed.

"Fine."

"And don’t investigate the maintenance technician."

"I make no promises."

"Aaron."

"Fine."

"No databases."

"Fine."

"No asking someone else to vet them."

"Fine."

"No favors."

He rolled his eyes.

"You can’t see me, but I’m offended."

"I can hear it."

She hung up.

Aaron stared at the phone.

Then at the washing machine.

"I dislike her."

The washer remained silent.

"Don’t take her side."

⸻

8:03 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

Aaron called resident services.

A woman answered.

"Good morning, Riverstone Residential, this is Keisha. How can I help you?"

Aaron almost hung up.

Not because he couldn’t speak to strangers.

He had negotiated with ministers.

Threatened corrupt executives.

Convinced terrified witnesses to trust him.

But those conversations had always begun with information.

He knew who they were.

What they wanted.

What leverage existed.

What risk they represented.

Keisha was simply a woman answering a telephone.

Aaron knew nothing about her.

"Hello?"

"Yes. Sorry."

He looked toward the laundry room.

"My washing machine is leaking."

"Okay. Are you in one of our managed units?"

"Yes."

"Address?"

Aaron gave it.

"Unit?"

He gave that too.

"Is the water still running?"

"No. I shut off the valve."

"Perfect. Any standing water?"

"Minimal."

"Any water reaching electrical outlets?"

"No."

"Great. We can send maintenance."

Aaron’s shoulders tightened.

"When?"

"Let me check."

Keyboard sounds.

Aaron waited.

"We have someone who can come between ten and noon."

"Who?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who are you sending?"

"Oh. Probably Marcus. Could be Devon depending on the earlier calls."

Aaron hated the word probably.

"Full names?"

There was a pause.

"Sir?"

Aaron closed his eyes.

Rebecca’s voice appeared in his head.

Don’t investigate the maintenance technician.

"First names are fine."

Another pause.

"All right."

Aaron rubbed his forehead.

"Ten to noon?"

"Yes."

"I’ll be here."

"Anything else?"

His instinct supplied approximately twelve questions.

Instead:

"No."

"Great. We’ll see you this morning."

The call ended.

Aaron stared at the phone.

That had taken three minutes.

He felt as though he’d crossed a border without documentation.

⸻

8:38 A.M. — CROFT ESTATE

Allison was halfway through breakfast when her phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Aaron.

Lucian looked up from his tablet.

"What did he do?"

"Why do you assume he did something?"

"Experience."

Allison answered.

"Hello?"

"Are you busy?"

She stopped.

Lucian noticed.

Allison lowered the piece of toast in her hand.

"Did you just ask if I’m busy?"

"Yes."

"Are you sick?"

"Goodbye."

"No, wait."

Lucian’s mouth twitched.

Allison put the call on speaker.

"What’s wrong?"

Aaron sighed.

"My washing machine broke."

Silence.

Lucian slowly lowered his tablet.

Allison blinked.

"I’m sorry. What?"

"I’m beginning to regret telling anyone."

"You called me."

"Yes."

"About laundry."

"Technically water damage."

"That sounds worse."

"It is not worse."

"Are you flooding?"

"No."

"Do you need somewhere to stay?"

"No."

"Do you need towels?"

"I own towels."

"Then what do you need?"

Aaron went quiet.

That stopped her amusement.

Allison glanced at Lucian.

Lucian waited.

"Aaron?"

"I have maintenance coming."

"Okay."

"Between ten and noon."

"Okay."

Another pause.

Allison understood.

"You don’t want to be there alone with somebody you don’t know."

"I did not say that."

"You didn’t have to."

"I am perfectly capable of being alone with a maintenance technician."

"Then why did you call?"

Aaron had no answer.

Allison leaned back.

She could have offered immediately.

She almost did.

Then she remembered something Aaron had done the day before.

He had reached for her accounting book.

Stopped.

Asked.

So Allison returned the favor.

"What are you asking me for?"

Silence.

Lucian looked at her.

Good.

Aaron finally said, "Could you come over?"

There it was.

Not elegant.

Not strategic.

Not disguised as logistics.

A request.

Allison smiled.

"Yes."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I expected more mockery."

"Oh, that’s still coming."

Aaron sighed.

"I’ll see you at nine-thirty."

"Actually, I have something with Rachel at eleven."

Aaron immediately said, "Never mind."

Allison frowned.

"I can come until ten forty-five."

"You don’t need to rearrange anything."

"I’m not. I have time."

A pause.

"All right."

"See you soon."

She hung up.

Lucian looked at her.

"That was interesting."

Allison picked up her toast.

"He asked."

"Yes."

"Eventually."

Lucian returned to his tablet.

"Progress."

"Don’t say that to him."

"I value my life."

⸻

9:34 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

Allison entered carrying coffee.

Aaron looked at the second cup.

"I have coffee."

"This one has caramel."

He took it.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome."

She looked around.

Aaron’s apartment was painfully neat.

Not luxurious in the dramatic way she’d expected.

Expensive, yes.

But restrained.

Dark wood.

Neutral furniture.

Bookshelves.

Very little decoration.

It looked like a place someone occupied without ever fully deciding to live there.

Allison spotted three towels stuffed beneath the washing machine.

"You know they make absorbent pads."

"I know that now."

She grinned.

"Did you Google it?"

"I don’t want to discuss this."

"You absolutely Googled it."

"I stopped the leak."

"Congratulations."

"Your tone is hostile."

"My tone is delighted."

The doorbell rang.

Aaron froze.

It was subtle.

Allison noticed anyway.

He checked the time.

9:41.

"They’re early."

"That’s usually considered good."

"Not when they said ten."

Allison stared at him.

"Aaron."

"What?"

"Open the door."

He walked toward it.

Stopped.

Looked through the peephole.

Allison covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Aaron opened the door.

A man in a dark maintenance shirt stood outside with a tool bag.

"Morning. Marcus. Maintenance."

Aaron looked at the stitched name on his shirt.

MARCUS.

The man lifted his eyebrows.

"Washing machine?"

"Yes."

Aaron stepped aside.

Marcus entered.

Aaron watched everything.

Shoes.

Bag.

Hands.

Direction of his gaze.

Allison saw the old machinery switch on behind Aaron’s eyes.

Marcus headed toward the laundry room.

Aaron followed.

Allison followed Aaron.

Marcus crouched near the machine.

"Looks like the drain pump seal."

"How can you tell?"

Marcus pointed.

"Water pattern."

Aaron crouched.

Allison leaned against the doorway.

Marcus removed a panel.

Aaron watched.

"You’ve repaired this model before?"

"Plenty."

"How many?"

Marcus looked over his shoulder.

"I don’t know. A lot."

Aaron frowned.

Allison coughed into her hand.

Marcus went back to work.

"Pump assembly’s cracked."

"Cause?"

"Could be age. Could be a defective part. Could be vibration."

"Can you determine which?"

Marcus stared at him.

"Do you need me to?"

Aaron opened his mouth.

Allison said, "No."

Aaron looked at her.

Marcus nodded.

"Great."

He returned to the machine.

Aaron lowered his voice.

"I can answer my own questions."

"Apparently not correctly."

"You’re enjoying this."

"Immensely."

Marcus stood.

"I’ve got the replacement downstairs. Give me twenty minutes."

Aaron looked toward the front door.

Marcus noticed.

"I’ll come back."

"I know."

Marcus left.

The door closed.

Allison immediately started laughing.

Aaron stared at her.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You’re laughing."

"You interrogated the washing-machine man."

"I asked relevant questions."

"You asked him for a sample size."

"I did not."

"You asked how many machines he’d repaired."

"That establishes experience."

"He has a shirt with his name on it and a tool bag."

"Neither establishes competence."

Allison laughed harder.

Aaron walked toward the kitchen.

"This was a mistake."

She followed him.

"What was?"

"Calling you."

"No, it wasn’t."

His expression shifted.

The humor softened.

Allison took a sip of coffee.

"You asked me to come. I came. Nobody died."

"That seems like an unnecessarily low standard."

"Look at our family."

Aaron considered it.

"Fair."

⸻

10:07 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

Marcus returned with the part.

This time Aaron opened the door without checking the peephole twice.

Allison noticed.

She didn’t comment.

Marcus worked.

Aaron stayed in the kitchen.

That was harder.

Every metallic sound from the laundry room made his attention shift.

Allison sat across from him at the island.

"You can go look."

"No."

"You clearly want to."

"No."

A crash sounded.

Aaron stood.

Marcus called, "Dropped a wrench!"

Aaron slowly sat.

Allison bit the inside of her cheek.

"Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You were thinking too loudly."

That got him.

Aaron laughed.

Actually laughed.

The tension broke.

His phone buzzed.

Rebecca.

REBECCA: Did you call the building?

Aaron typed:

AARON: Yes.

A response appeared.

REBECCA: And?

Aaron looked toward Marcus.

AARON: A stranger is currently dismantling an appliance in my home.

Three dots.

REBECCA: Thoughts and prayers.

Allison leaned over.

"Did your attorney just make fun of you?"

"No."

"Yes, she did."

"She is becoming unprofessional."

Another message arrived.

REBECCA: Do not background-check him.

Aaron locked the phone.

Allison stared.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to background-check Marcus?"

"No."

Her eyebrows rose.

Aaron sighed.

"I considered it."

"Aaron."

"I didn’t."

She stared another second.

Then nodded.

"Okay."

That was all.

No speech.

No lesson.

Just okay.

Aaron looked at her.

For some reason, that was worse.

Or better.

He hadn’t decided.

⸻

10:31 A.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

Marcus turned the washer on.

Water filled the drum.

No leak.

He watched the cycle for several minutes.

"Should be good."

Aaron stood beside him.

"That’s it?"

"That’s it."

"How much?"

"Building covers it."

Aaron blinked.

Marcus zipped his tool bag.

"Anything else?"

"No."

Then Aaron stopped.

There was one more thing.

"Thank you."

Marcus smiled.

"No problem."

He left.

The door shut.

Aaron stared at it.

Allison looked at him.

"You survived."

"Barely."

"And you didn’t investigate him."

"You don’t know that."

Her expression changed.

Aaron sighed.

"I didn’t."

"Good."

He walked into the laundry room.

The washer ran quietly.

Allison checked the time.

"I have to go."

Aaron nodded.

"Rachel."

"Eleven."

"I’ll drive you."

"No."

The answer came so quickly Aaron frowned.

"I have a car."

"Right."

"And you have restrictions."

"I can drive locally."

"I know."

"Then why no?"

"Because I don’t need you to."

Simple.

Aaron looked at her.

Allison picked up her bag.

"See? Everybody gets to say it."

He laughed under his breath.

"Apparently."

She headed for the door.

"Allison."

She turned.

"Thank you for coming."

"You’re welcome."

No joke followed.

She left.

Aaron locked the door.

Then looked around the apartment.

Quiet again.

But not the same kind of quiet.

⸻

12:18 P.M. — U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

REBECCA SLOAN’S OFFICE

Rebecca looked up from her computer.

Aaron stood in her doorway.

"No."

He blinked.

"I haven’t said anything."

"No."

"You don’t know why I’m here."

"Yes, I do."

"That’s impossible."

"You’re early for tomorrow."

"By twenty-one hours."

"Which is why you’re not here for tomorrow."

Aaron entered.

Rebecca pointed toward the chair.

He sat.

She waited.

Aaron didn’t speak.

Rebecca returned to her computer.

He lasted forty-three seconds.

"I need a document."

"No."

Aaron stared at her.

"This is becoming a reflex."

"What document?"

"My original lease."

"Call your building."

"I did."

Rebecca slowly looked at him.

Aaron frowned.

"What?"

"You called them?"

"Yes."

"Yourself?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"They’re emailing it."

Rebecca stared.

Aaron became suspicious.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I’m proud of you."

"Don’t."

"I’m deeply proud."

"I will leave."

"You called a property office twice in one day."

"I have negotiated hostage releases."

"And yet here we are."

Aaron glared.

Rebecca smiled.

"So why are you here?"

Aaron leaned back.

"The government has a copy of the lease in one of the seized property files."

"There it is."

"What?"

"You could have waited for the building to email it."

"Yes."

"But you knew I could probably retrieve the government’s copy faster."

Aaron said nothing.

Rebecca folded her arms.

"You came here hoping I’d solve the delay."

"It’s a document."

"No."

"I need it."

"For what?"

"The building wants proof of the appliance provision because the ownership structure changed last year."

"And when are they emailing your copy?"

Aaron checked his phone.

"They said within one business day."

Rebecca stared.

"That is not an emergency."

"I never said it was."

"You treated it like one."

"I came to an office."

"You came to your federal criminal defense attorney to bypass a twenty-four-hour property-management wait."

"When you say it like that—"

"I am saying it exactly like that."

Aaron leaned back.

Rebecca pointed toward the door.

"No."

He didn’t move.

"No what?"

"No using me as your new network."

His humor disappeared.

Rebecca’s expression remained calm.

"You’re very good at making a request sound reasonable after you’ve already decided someone should solve it for you."

Aaron said nothing.

"You did it with the repair."

"I called the building."

"After calling me."

He looked away.

Rebecca continued.

"You’re allowed to ask people for help."

"I know."

"No. You’re comfortable assigning problems. That’s different."

Aaron’s jaw tightened.

"I asked Allison this morning."

Rebecca paused.

"For what?"

"To sit with me while maintenance was there."

That surprised her.

"You actually asked?"

"Yes."

"Using the words?"

"Could you come over."

Rebecca considered him.

"That counts."

"Thank you for your certification."

"But this doesn’t."

She pointed at his phone.

"Wait for the email."

"I hate waiting."

"I know."

"What if they don’t send it?"

"Then you follow up."

"And if that doesn’t work?"

"Then you escalate through normal channels."

Aaron looked genuinely offended.

"This is barbaric."

Rebecca laughed.

He stood.

"I’m glad my suffering entertains you."

"It does."

Aaron reached the door.

"Aaron."

He looked back.

Rebecca’s expression shifted.

"Tomorrow is going to be difficult."

His shoulders went still.

"But today is not tomorrow."

He waited.

"Don’t turn Wednesday into Thursday because you don’t know what to do with yourself."

That landed.

Aaron nodded once.

Then left.

⸻

2:44 P.M. — CITY PARK

Aaron bought lunch from a food truck.

Not because anyone told him to eat.

That fact felt important enough that he refused to examine it further.

He carried the paper bag to a bench overlooking a pond.

His phone remained quiet.

No Rebecca.

No Elena.

No Allison.

No prosecutors.

No emergency.

Aaron ate half the sandwich.

Then his phone buzzed.

He reached for it immediately.

Property management.

Attached: Original Lease Agreement and Appliance Addendum.

Aaron stared at the email.

Twenty-six minutes.

He opened the attachment.

Page twelve.

Appliance maintenance responsibility belonged to building ownership.

Exactly what he needed.

No favors.

No special access.

No government copy.

No private contact.

He had called the correct office.

Waited.

And received the document.

Aaron looked around the park.

"This is ridiculous."

An elderly man feeding ducks glanced over.

Aaron shook his head.

"Not you."

The man moved farther down the bench.

Aaron sighed.

⸻

4:17 P.M. — CROFT ESTATE

Roman was in the kitchen when Aaron arrived.

He looked up.

"You look bored."

"I am not bored."

"You’re carrying a grocery bag."

Aaron looked down.

"Yes."

Roman narrowed his eyes.

"You bought groceries?"

"People do that."

"You?"

"I have purchased food before."

"Under surveillance?"

Aaron walked past him.

Roman followed.

"What did you buy?"

"Why are you like this?"

"Trauma."

Aaron stopped.

Roman grinned.

"Kidding."

Aaron pointed at him.

"Don’t start."

Roman lifted both hands.

"Fine. No tragic backstory. What’s in the bag?"

Aaron set it on the counter.

Bread.

Eggs.

Coffee.

Pasta.

Tomatoes.

Chicken.

Roman stared.

"What?"

"You shop like a man who learned food from a hostage manual."

"I hate this family."

"You’re not family."

Aaron paused.

Roman paused too.

Then shrugged.

"Close enough to be annoying."

Aaron looked at him.

Roman opened the refrigerator.

"Why are you here?"

"I came to see Adrian."

"He’s upstairs."

Aaron started toward the hallway.

Roman called after him.

"Did you need something?"

Aaron stopped.

The question was ordinary.

That was becoming an irritating theme.

He turned.

"Actually, yes."

Roman waited.

Aaron glanced at the grocery bag.

Then at him.

"I bought chicken."

"I can see that."

"I don’t cook."

Roman stared.

"You don’t cook?"

"I can cook."

"You just said you don’t."

"I said I don’t cook. I didn’t say I can’t."

Roman folded his arms.

"Can you cook the chicken?"

Aaron paused.

"No."

Roman smiled slowly.

"Oh, this is going to be excellent."

"Forget it."

"No."

Aaron frowned.

"No?"

"You asked."

Roman picked up the package.

"So I’m helping."

"I regret this already."

"You should."

⸻

5:02 P.M. — CROFT ESTATE KITCHEN

Aaron had dismantled criminal financial structures across multiple jurisdictions.

Chicken nearly defeated him.

"Stop touching it," Roman said.

"I need to check it."

"You checked it thirty seconds ago."

"It could change."

"It is changing. That’s what cooking is."

Aaron glared at the pan.

Roman leaned against the counter drinking coffee.

"You’re enjoying this too much."

"Absolutely."

"Useful instruction would be appreciated."

"I gave you instructions."

"You said medium heat."

"Yes."

"This stove has numbers."

Roman stared.

"Five."

"Five isn’t mathematically the middle of nine."

"Oh my God."

"It isn’t."

"Use five."

Aaron adjusted the burner.

Roman shook his head.

"Architect."

"Don’t call me that."

The humor disappeared.

Roman looked at him.

Then nodded.

"Aaron."

A small correction.

No speech attached.

Aaron turned back to the stove.

"Five."

"Five."

A minute later, Roman said, "Flip it."

Aaron did.

The chicken did not kill anyone.

Progress.

⸻

6:21 P.M. — CROFT ESTATE DINING ROOM

Allison stared at the plate.

Then at Aaron.

Then at Roman.

"Who cooked?"

Roman pointed at Aaron.

Allison’s eyes widened.

"No."

Aaron sat down.

"I don’t appreciate everyone’s lack of confidence."

Lucian cut into the chicken.

Aaron watched him.

Lucian stopped.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I’m waiting."

"For?"

"Death."

Lucian chewed.

Swallowed.

"Disappointingly safe."

Allison tried hers.

"This is actually good."

Aaron looked pleased.

Roman immediately ruined it.

"He asked me for help."

Allison gasped theatrically.

"No."

Aaron closed his eyes.

"I am leaving."

"You made dinner," Allison said. "You can’t leave before people praise you."

"I don’t require praise."

"You absolutely require praise."

Adrian entered.

"What are we praising?"

"Aaron asked for help."

Aaron stood.

"Goodnight."

Roman grabbed his sleeve.

"Sit."

"Release me."

Adrian looked confused.

"With what?"

"Chicken."

Adrian stared at Aaron.

"You cooked?"

Aaron slowly looked toward the ceiling.

"Tomorrow I may be indicted solely to escape this conversation."

Lucian corrected him without looking up.

"Tomorrow is preliminary."

Aaron pointed at him.

"Do not bring legal accuracy into my humiliation."

That made Allison laugh so hard she nearly dropped her fork.

And just like that, the subject changed.

No one asked him about Maria.

No one asked whether he was afraid.

No one asked what prosecutors might say tomorrow.

They argued over whether the chicken needed more salt.

For once, Aaron was grateful.

⸻

8:48 P.M. — AARON’S APARTMENT

The washing machine worked.

Aaron stood in front of it watching clothes tumble behind the glass.

He had never found laundry particularly fascinating before.

Tonight it felt like evidence.

Not of redemption.

Certainly not transformation.

Just Wednesday.

He checked the lock on the front door once.

Not three times.

His phone sat on the kitchen counter.

Tomorrow’s appointment remained on the calendar.

THURSDAY — 9:00 A.M.

U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

PRE-CHARGE CONFERENCE

Aaron looked at it.

Then away.

He could not change what prosecutors would say tomorrow.

He could not call someone and learn the answer tonight.

He could not arrange a contingency in another country.

He could not make Rebecca retrieve information he could obtain himself.

He could not turn every uncomfortable unknown into a problem somebody else had to eliminate.

But today he had called resident services.

He had let a stranger repair his washing machine.

He had asked Allison to stay.

He had waited for an email.

He had asked Roman how to cook chicken.

A very unimpressive list.

Aaron smiled.

Maybe that was the point.

His phone buzzed.

Rebecca.

REBECCA: Tomorrow. 8:40 lobby. Don’t be early.

Aaron typed:

AARON: Define early.

REBECCA: Before 8:39.

AARON: That’s not how time works.

REBECCA: Goodnight, Aaron.

He smiled.

Then another message appeared.

REBECCA: And do not investigate the prosecutors tonight.

Aaron stared at it.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

AARON: I already know who they are.

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

REBECCA: Somehow worse. Go to bed.

Aaron laughed.

He plugged his phone into the charger.

Across the apartment, the washing machine chimed.

Aaron walked toward it.

Opened the door.

Pulled out the first shirt.

Then stopped.

He had forgotten dryer sheets.

Aaron stared into the machine.

There had been a time when someone could have delivered them within twenty minutes.

He picked up his phone.

Opened his contacts.

Paused.

Then opened the grocery store app instead.

Delivery tomorrow afternoon.

Aaron selected dryer sheets.

Added them to the cart.

For one brief second, his thumb hovered over expedited delivery.

He laughed at himself.

"Absolutely not."

Standard delivery.

Order placed.

His phone returned to the home screen.

Tomorrow at nine, Aaron Mercer would sit across from federal prosecutors and hear what they believed his choices were worth in criminal charges.

That was tomorrow.

Tonight, he had wet laundry.

He carried it to the drying rack.

One shirt at a time.

To Be Continued...

NEXT — Chapter 79: THE DEPOSITION

Thursday begins with Aaron’s pre-charge conference.

But across town, another record is being made.

Susanna Croft sits down under oath.

Genesis.

Elena.

The fire.

Charles Calloway.

The kidnapping.

For years, those events existed as separate pieces of her life.

Now she has to put them in order.

And once the chronology is spoken aloud, one uncomfortable truth becomes impossible to ignore:

The walls around their lives were built long before any of them realized they were inside them.