Page 44 of Override

***

By the time I get back to my apartment after Nevada, my brain feels like static.

The mission ended clean. Hostage recovered. Minimal casualties. Matt satisfied. Which meant technically it counted as a good week for Grayline.

Still, something restless sits beneath my skin tonight, impossible to settle no matter how many systems I monitor at once.

The Office plays in the background while I sit sideways on the couch in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, one foot hooked beneath the opposite knee. My laptop glows beside me with Gallagher estate feeds running across one screen while Ronan’s financial records crawl slowly across another.

Money laundering. Shell companies. Offshore routing.

Nothing concrete enough yet.

But something is there.

I know it.

At the top corner of the surveillance feed, Maeve moves slowly through the upstairs hallway in soft gray sleep clothes with a mug tucked between both hands.

My eyes drift toward her automatically.

Which is becoming a problem.

I don’t notice the apartment door opening until someone drops onto the couch hard enough to jolt the cushions beneath me.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Wheels says beside me. “Your situational awareness is garbage lately.”

I barely glance up from the laptop. “I saw you coming.”

“Bullshit.”

I point lazily toward the bottom corner of the television screen where the apartment building security feed runs silently beside The Office rerun.

Wheels follows the direction of my finger.

The camera shows him entering the building lobby four minutes earlier carrying takeout and wearing the exact same hoodie he’s had since deployment three years ago because apparently laundry is optional when you’re Raymond Barlow.

“…Okay that’s fair,” he admits.

“I literally unlocked the front door remotely.”

“Honestly somehow that’s creepier.”

He steals the beer sitting on the coffee table and leans back into the couch like he lives here while I go back to scanning financial reports.

“You’ve got the personality of a haunted Ikea showroom in here,” he mutters while looking around.

“That feels unnecessarily specific.”

“You have gray curtains.”

“They’re practical.”

“You own one plant and I think it’s dead.”

I glance toward the windowsill.

Huh. It is dead. Interesting.