Page 27 of Only the Hunter

“We’ll see. Thanks for the ride.” I close the door and wave, stepping to the curb out of the way of traffic. I don’t know how Shonda has time to read for pleasure. I spend hours reading—and it’s almost never fun. Such is the life of a lawyer.

I shove the key in my front door, push it open, and kick the door closed. Entering my place through the front is one more reminder I really need to sort out the car situation. I prefer to enter my place from the back where there’s a coat hook.

But instead of going through the kitchen to the coat hook, I head straight up the stairs to my home office.

The files will be there. Of course they will. But I need to see them—need to know what I still have before more disappears from the server.

Atlas pokes his head from the bedroom threshold.

“Hey, boy.”

He sits. Tail flipping back and forth.

I don’t stop. He’s not the kind of cat that wants attention. He’s a watcher.

The binders are lined up on the credenza exactly where I left them. Neat. Orderly. Color-coded tabs peeking out at precise intervals.

I let out a breath.

See? I tell myself. You’re fine. You’re tired. You⁠—

I stop.

The third binder from the left is angled differently. Not by much. Just enough that the spine isn’t perfectly flush with the others.

I reach for it slowly, my fingers suddenly clumsy. Inside, the pages are intact. Mostly. I flip through, faster now, my eyes scanning margins and headers and handwritten notes I know as well as my own signature.

Page numbers in pencil. Bottom right corner.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

Twenty-one.

My breath stutters.

I flip back. Forward. Again.

Pages nineteen and twenty are gone.

Not torn. Not ripped out hastily. Cleanly removed. No ragged edge. No damage to the binding.

I sink into the desk chair, my knees weak, my gaze blurring as I force myself to keep going.

Another binder. Another gap. Different section. Not consecutive. Not random.

Targeted.

I pull open the file drawer beneath the desk. Everything looks normal at first glance. Manila folders stacked neatly, labels facing out.

Until I reach Lina’s file.

It’s still there. The folder itself hasn’t moved.

But it’s thinner.

My hands shake as I open it. Intake forms. Case notes. Interview transcripts.