Page 148 of Override

Then a pair of shoes appears beside the passenger door. Small. Black. Heeled.

Maeve.

My lungs pull in a breath that doesn’t feel large enough.

She shifts slightly as the door continues to rise, and more of her comes into view. The hem of a dark green dress. Her hand folded over the strap of her purse. Her hair pinned neatly away from her face.

She is standing only a few hundred yards from me, and somehow the distance feels greater than when I watched her through a camera from Grayline.

I lean closer. She looks thinner. The change is subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but I have spent weeks learning every shift in her expression and posture. The dress sits differently against her waist. Her shoulders curve inward instead of holding the straight, stubborn line I remember from the gala.

She isn’t smiling. I knew she wouldn’t be. It still hurts. Ronan steps into view.

He is facing her with his back partially turned toward the camera. One hand moves as he speaks, calm and measured, as though he is explaining something she should already understand.

Maeve remains still. Listening. The garage door finishes opening, but neither of them moves toward the SUV.

I increase the feed’s resolution and adjust the contrast, pulling more detail from the shadows. The image sharpens enough for me to see the tension in her fingers where they grip her purse.

Ronan speaks again. Longer this time.

She turns her head toward the open driveway, and for one impossible second, her gaze seems to move directly toward the camera.

Toward me. I know she can’t see me. The camera is too high. The woods are too dark. She has no reason to believe I’m anywhere near the estate. Still, my chest tightens.

Then she looks back at Ronan and says something. I can’t hear the words.

I should. I should have audio. I should have found a way back into the garage system. I should have installed another microphone while I had access to the house. I should have done a hundred things differently.

Maeve speaks again. This time, her posture changes. Her shoulders straighten. Her chin lifts. The woman standing beside the SUV no longer looks like the one who stepped into view moments ago.

Something moves through me that is too sharp to be relief. I recognize her.

There you are.

Ronan’s hand drops to his side. Maeve continues speaking. She gestures toward the house, then toward herself. The movement isn’t wild or uncontrolled. It is deliberate. Certain. She is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear.

My fingers tighten around the laptop. Part of me wants her to stop. Not because she is wrong. Because I know men like Ronan Gallagher. Control works until the person being controlled recognizes it. The moment she names what he has done, he has two choices.

Release her. Or tighten his grip.

Ronan steps closer. Maeve doesn’t move back.

A cold knot forms beneath my ribs. “Careful,” I murmur, even though she can’t hear me.

He says something. She answers immediately. Whatever she says makes him go completely still.

The change is so slight I might have missed it if I hadn’t spent weeks analyzing every movement he made around her. His shoulders lock. His head tilts. The hand at his side curls slowly into a fist.

Maeve takes one step toward the passenger door. Ronan catches her upper arm. The movement is quick enough that the camera blurs. Maeve’s entire body jerks.

I rise so abruptly the chair nearly overturns behind me.

Ronan’s hand remains wrapped around her arm. She looks down at it. Then back at him. My pulse pounds against the base of my skull as I reach for my phone.

I don’t call Matt. Not yet.

Maeve pulls her arm. Ronan doesn’t release her. Even through the grain of the camera feed, I see the moment something inside her changes.