Page 169 of Only the Hunter

The NSA interview is gone now—canceled and erased from his future with a quiet finality he never asked me to bless. Details weren’t offered, but we can speculate. I told him I wouldn’t be the reason he lost his future—he believes I wasn’t. Whether he’s right, or wrong, he risked an NSA career anyway, on his own terms.

I don’t know yet how to hold that.

Gratitude sits too close to guilt. Relief feels too much like a claim.

So I set the phone facedown and choose the only thing that has ever steadied me.

Work.

At 9:52, I stand.

In the hall, voices drift from conference rooms, the muted cadence of people discussing policy and budgets and headlines. I pass Harridan’s office on the way to 4B without intending to.

The door is open.

The nameplate is gone.

The space inside is stripped down to its neutral bones—desk cleared, shelves emptied, blinds half raised like someone wanted to make it look bright for the next person. There’s no trace of him except the faint outline on the carpet where a small coffee table once sat—one I presume was his personal possession.

For a second, my mind tries to put him in the room anyway. Tries to fill the absence the way it always does when something is unresolved.

Then I keep walking.

Because that, too, is part of this.

He’s not here.

And I am.

Conference Room 4B is packed in the way that signals a case has grown teeth.

Two people from Public Integrity. A liaison from DHS oversight—new face, careful muted expression. A line attorney from the trafficking task force that I don’t recognize. A second chair at the table that will belong to me.

Delgado is there, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in the way only competent people can afford.

Rebecca Hanford stands at the front, tablet in her hands, hair pulled back more tightly than usual.

She looks up when I enter.

It’s subtle—just a shift of attention—but the room changes anyway, as if my presence confirms something they’ve been circling without saying out loud.

“Thompson,” Hanford says.

She’s not warm. Nor is she cold. She’s professional.

I take the seat that’s been held.

No one claps or cheers.

Thank god.

Hanford taps the tablet, and the screen on the wall flickers to life with a flowchart that looks like any other bureaucratic slide until you actually read what it says.

HARRIDAN COOPERATION AGREEMENT — PRELIMINARY

DHS SIGNATURE OVERLAP

PAC CHAIR INVESTIGATION — OPEN