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“I let Morales through around half-eleven,” his tone stays even, procedural.

“You did what?” I snap.

Sol swallows and turns to me. “She said Lana was expecting her.” He lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “And you never flagged her. You never said her clearance had changed.”

Brox’s jaw tightens.

“Run it,” I say.

Sol taps the keyboard. One of the larger monitors shifts to show our penthouse living room from a high corner. The timestamp in the corner reads ten at the moment.

We watch ourselves move around the screen. Me in a dark suit, putting on my jacket. Brox in shirtsleeves, fastening cufflinks. In the background, Lana appears briefly, wrapped in our duvet, hair a mess, eyes narrowed at the bright morning light. She stumbles from the corridor to the kitchen, pours herself water, then pads back to the bedroom, yawning.

Sol fast-forwards. The footage blurs, furniture jerks, sunlight shifts. Both of us leave through the elevator. Time stamp ticks forward.

“Slow,” I say when the numbers hit around 11:30.

He drops it back to real speed.

For a few minutes, nothing happens. The living room sits quietly. A stray shaft of light moves slowly across the sofa.

Lana takes a shower, then leisurely walks around the penthouse, brushing her hair. She checks her cell, and then she dresses up, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a light jacket, and heads for the elevator.

Then the elevator doors open, and Morales steps into the frame.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

Morales in her white coat, her hair tied in a low bun. And with her assistant following close behind her.

“Did Morales say anything to you?” Brox asks Sol.

“She was talking to her assistant about measuring Lana’s stress levels, sleep, emotional regulation, that sort of thing.”

A low growl rolls out of my chest before I can stop it.

On the screen, Morales walks out of the elevator, calm as Sunday mass, her assistant waddling behind her.

My stomach goes hard.

Lana’s standing in front of it, her arms crossed, her jaw tight, every line of her body saying no. I can see it in her posture, even without sound. She’s telling Morales to move. She’s trying to walk past them.

But Morales blocks her. Steps forward. Smiles with a predator’s charm.

Lana’s arguing with her, tilts her chin up, holds her ground. But I see the moment she realizes something’s up.

Brox’s hands curl on the desk.

The next second punches me in the ribs–Morales stepping closer, Lana leaning back without wanting to. She says something–her face twists; she’s fighting. Then the assistant moves. Too close. Too fast.

There’s a small jerk of Lana’s arm.

I freeze.

Brox goes still beside me, too.

Lana’s face changes–first surprise, then that thin rip of panic that she tries to hide until her knees give out. She catches the wall. Rolls her shoulder. Blinks too slow.

I know that look. My pulse spikes so hard it hurts.