Page 20 of Cold Mercy

“You know what day tomorrow is, right?”

Watching him closely, I raise a brow in feigned confusion.

“No. Should I?” I respond. I know exactly what day it is. It is the date circled in red on every federal file regarding Aurora. The anniversary is when targets get sloppy. They get drunk, they visit graves, they make calls they shouldn't.

He sighs, pulling out his phone anyway.

“You’ll see it in every paper by noon. ‘Young entrepreneur murdered on Knickerbocker rooftop, second anniversary.’” Right. The tragedy that launched Sophia's career.

“Fuck. I forgot,” I lie smoothly. “I didn't mean to be insensitive.”

James gives me a weird look, like he’s trying to read something in my face.

“You know… I might be insane for saying this, and Liz will actually murder me, but maybe this is exactly what she needs.”

He hesitates.

“Her gate code is 1407. Noah's birthday, ” James stops abruptly, blinking as if realizing what he just said.

“Shit, I probably shouldn't be giving that out.”

Yeah, he's correct about this one, for sure. He rubs his neck, looking genuinely conflicted.

“Actually…maybe don't just walk in, call her first maybe? For the good of both of us? She’s…intense about 'babysitting' her on a good day, and tomorrow…yeah.”

James thinks he is being a good friend. In reality, he just handed a detective the keys to the castle because he felt sorry for a lonely, nearly widowed woman. If Moreau knew he was giving out her gate code to a man she barely tolerates, she would probably shred him.

But I nod, keeping my thoughts off my face.

“Understood. Call her first.”

We shake hands and step outside, going our separate ways.

One evening could provide me with more information than I’ve pulled in months. I need to see how she reacts under pressure, learn the layout of her house, and find where she keeps the things she doesn't want the world to see.

All of it matters. Every detail can be the next phase of the case.

The second I step into my apartment, I strip everything off and collapse into bed, but sleep doesn't stick. I drift in and out of a restless state, jolting awake over and over until the sky behind the blinds fades to a pale blue. Giving up, I go for a run, changing my route to pass by Moreau's house.

No signs of distress, nothing on fire, no movement. I don’t want her to see me if she’s home, so I keep going and circle back.

I eat my very healthy breakfast, which is Chinese leftovers, because I’m too tired to pretend I have a kitchen for anything else.

James’s comment about side transactions keeps grinding in my head. I open both boxes again and dig through the mess of receipts without context, statements that lead nowhere, and transfers that could mean anything. Mercer could have used mules, shell companies, fake consultancies. Without specifics, I can’t trace shit.

I record my daily log, letting myself be less objective than I should. I fill out my daily report for Grace, and by the time I finish, hours are gone, and the room has grown dim. Looking around, I realize I’m still in sweats, the empty takeout box sitting on the counter like evidence of my neglect.

A surge of purpose, sharp and clean, cuts through the exhaustion. My body thrums with a controlled energy. The opportunity is here, and I'm not going to miss it.

I get dressed and take the car, parking outside her gate. The code James slip-up echoes in my head. I pull out my phone and dial her number, just for the record. It goes straight to voicemail. At least now I have an excuse if she asks what I'm doing here; I tried calling, but she didn't answer, I got worried and came to check.

I punch in the numbers, more out of procedural necessity than actual hope.

The massive green gate slides open. No alarms, no dogs, nothing. Her fiancé took a bullet not long ago, and she lives in a glass house with the doors wide open. It's fucking stupid. A monument to either her ignorance or her ego. She's practically begging for someone to come in and finish the job.

I drive the length of the driveway, a perfectly exposed kill zone. Mercer must have been a moron, too.

I step out, grab the jacket from the backseat, and stand there for a full minute staring at the front door. The house is completely dark, not a single light visible from the outside, and my first assumption is that she simply isn’t home.