Page 82 of Anchor
Ian didn’t flinch. “Then we reset the truth, from the ground up.”
She nodded slowly then passed him the folder with the death certificate. “You have my permission.”
Ian accepted it with both hands. And for just a moment, Claire thought he looked… heavier. Not because he didn’t want the truth. But because he already knew how much it would cost.
Sunlight filteredthrough the tall windows, casting soft gold across the rug. It was warm, for once. Not sterile or sharp or medical, but actuallywarm. Claire shifted against the couch, her legs curled under her, a blanket draped across her knees. A mug of tea—real tea, not hospital-grade brown water—rested in her hands.
Reid was stretched on the floor just below, sprawled on his back, reading the field notes again. He smelled faintly of smoke, soap and something citrus. The scent grounded her.
“I still think that symbol on the corner of the Geneva document looks like a cipher.” She sipped her tea.
Reid didn’t glance up. “It might be. Or it might be the world’s laziest signature. Either way, I’m getting it tattooed if it turns out to be the key.”
Claire smiled, then laughed. Really laughed. It caught her off guard.
Reid’s eyes flicked up at the sound. “There she is.”
Her smile faded into something gentler. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Sitting. Talking. Breathing without looking over our shoulders.”
Reid sat up, hand finding hers. “You still can,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
Claire looked at him, saw all the things he wasn’t saying—We don’t know how long this lasts. We don’t know what Vos will do next. You could still lose me.
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Thank you,” she whispered.
TWENTY-EIGHT
FOUR WEEKS SINCE THE SHOOTING
It had been two weeks since the fire and ash of the apartment explosion, and the dust had mostly settled—on the outside, at least. Inside their suite, inside the walls of Chase HQ, things felt... suspended. Claire was healing. Her stitches were out, the bruises fading, her strength slowly coming back. They’d fallen into a kind of quiet togetherness of easy mornings with tea and soft touches, late nights spent tangled under covers whispering more than sleeping. Their rhythm was gentle, patient, almost domestic. Almost normal.
But Reid couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone still inside her. She hadn’t opened her laptop in the weeks since she sorted through the box. The first week, he chalked it up to emotional recovery. The second, he started to watch more closely. She didn’t write. Didn’t sketch. Didn’t even fidget with the devices they’d once fought to keep out of her reach. She’d just… stopped. She even let the dean of her department take over her classes without so much as a word.
Now and then, she’d sit by the window with a book open in her lap but unread, her gaze drifting out to nothing. And it wasn’t pain on her face, not the kind that had edges or a name. It was softer, quieter. A sadness that felt almost familiar. One that didn’t flare, just lingered. The kind that lived in silence.
One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains and warmed the edge of the bed, Reid closed his file and looked over at her. She was curled up on the corner seat, legs tucked beneath her, her eyes fixed on something only she could see.
“You haven’t touched your laptop in two weeks,” he said gently.
Claire blinked slowly, like she’d only just returned from wherever she’d gone in her head. “I know.” She glanced at the floor. “I haven’t wanted to.”
“You always want to.” He stood and walked toward her. “Even when you were sick. Even when you were angry. You always calculating. It’s where you go when you can’t talk.”
She gave a half smile. “Maybe I don’t want to talk.”
“Maybe,” Reid crouched in front of her, “you don’t want to think.”
Claire hesitated, then nodded once. “It’s Heather.”
He stayed quiet.
“She lied to me my whole life, Reid,” she whispered. “She raised me in a house of rules and masks and told me every piece of that cage was mine to be proud of. And now? I don’t know where I came from. I don’t even know if I belonged to her or to anyone. But I keep thinking… Joseph called me Firefly. He still held me like I mattered. That ledger was supposed to make sense. And all it did was raise more questions.”
Reid sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and reached for her hand. “I’ve asked Ian for updates. Every damn day. He saysthey’re working on it, but I think he’s filtering it. Trying to protect you.”
