Chapter 2 - The Men at My Door
Gabriel Rossi refused to let me stand near my windows.
He said the projectile lodged in my cabinet had probably come from a suppressed firearm, and he had already called the police.
I watched Malik wrap a blanket around my shoulders while another security vehicle stopped outside.
My first impulse was to call Tessa; my second was to ask why men apparently employed by a criminal organization knew where I slept.
Gabriel did not evade the question.
He said Adrian had asked him to deliver a warning after an intelligence contact reported that my name had been circulated among hostile associates.
That warning should have arrived before the television broadcast, but the broadcast had been moved forward without his security team's approval.
I asked why Adrian had mentioned me at all.
Gabriel looked uncomfortable and said he could explain only what he had been told.
A local political fixer named Conrad Vale had obtained an old photograph of me with Adrian, and anonymous social accounts were preparing to publish it with a fabricated story about company money.
Adrian had gone on television to get ahead of the rumor, believing a public admission would turn the old photograph into a harmless romance headline.
I stared at the shattered window.
Harmless was not the word I would have chosen.
Two officers arrived and took statements, photographed the scene, and carefully bagged the recovered metal fragment.
I described the gunshots, the messages, and the men at the door without concealing anything.
Gabriel confirmed his identity to the officers and provided the number of his firm's attorney.
I was relieved to see that he did not try to dictate what I told them.
When the officers stepped into the hall, Adrian called.
His voice was deeper than I remembered, though the cadence remained painfully familiar.
Emma, are you hurt?
I told him no, and he exhaled as though he had been holding his breath for a decade.
I asked why he had told the world I was his unfinished business.
In the police officer's notebook, the incident was reduced to times and observations.
I understood the necessity, but the clean lines could not contain the way fear had moved through me when the cupboard splintered.
I could still hear the impact whenever somebody dropped a spoon.
An officer asked whether I wanted a victim advocate to contact me, and I said yes.
Gabriel stood nearby with his palms visible and answered every question without attempting to speak over me.
I noticed that small courtesy because so many other people had already begun answering for me.
At the hotel I insisted on checking the fire exits, keeping my own phone charged, and informing Tessa where I would be.
Gabriel approved those precautions but did not pretend his approval was needed.
The room smelled of bleach and fresh sheets.
I locked the door, then unlocked it to check the mechanism, then locked it again.
Nobody teased me for doing so.
When Tessa finally arrived, we sat on opposite beds and spoke about the ordinary things we had neglected lately.
Her brother had found a new job.
My mother's garden had frozen early.
An audition might be postponed.
Those details steadied me because danger had not swallowed the entire world.
Before sleeping I wrote down everything I remembered of the messages.
I recorded the exact time of each call, the sound of Gabriel's voice, and what the officers collected.
The list was not brave.
It was simply a way to protect my memory from the confusion I knew would follow.
I also wrote a question in capital letters: WHO BENEFITS IF I BLAME ADRIAN?
At that point I could not answer it.
But I recognized that my fear was being pointed in a particular direction, and I did not want anyone, including Adrian, to choose that direction for me.
There were practical decisions nobody on television would ever discuss.
I had to contact my landlord about the damaged window without giving away the hotel address.
I had to replace a prescription left in the bathroom cabinet and cancel a delivery scheduled for the following morning.
An officer gave me a case number, and I repeated it until I could remember the digits without opening my phone.
Rachel later explained which expenses might become part of a victim compensation claim and which would remain my responsibility.
The conversation made me furious, not because she was unkind, but because violence had turned simple errands into legal problems.
When I finally showered, I discovered a sliver of glass caught in my sweater.
I set it carefully on a tissue rather than throwing it away.
After the police confirmed they did not need it, I discarded it and washed my hands.
That small act felt like choosing to remain alive in my own body.
The hotel corridor remained quiet after midnight.
I heard a service cart pass and wondered whether ordinary guests had any idea how quickly a secure place could begin to feel unfamiliar.
I reminded myself that my choices were still mine, even if safety now required help.
He said he had made a foolish calculation.
I answered that his calculation had nearly gotten me killed.
He accepted that without argument.
Then he offered a secure hotel room, guards, and a driver while police investigated.
I told him that protection was not permission to control my life.
He said I could choose the hotel, choose the guards' distance, and leave whenever I wanted.
I knew rich men often promised freedom while arranging the opposite.
I chose a modest business hotel near a police precinct and told Gabriel that I wanted my own room key and the ability to contact the detective directly.
Gabriel agreed.
Before leaving, I packed the old phone, my current laptop, and the shoebox containing my father's correspondence.
My father, a municipal records clerk, had died five years earlier after a sudden stroke.
For reasons I did not understand, he had always told me not to throw away one particular envelope marked with the word HARBOR.
I brought it because the television interview had awakened a memory of an argument between my father and a man driving a black sedan.
Back then, Dad said a financial empire could hide an ugly foundation.
In the hallway, I turned and saw a piece of paper tucked under my damaged apartment door.
It had been slipped through the gap while police examined the rear alley.
The paper held a photograph of seventeen-year-old Adrian and me outside our school.
Across the image, someone had written four words in red ink.
ASK HIM ABOUT HARBOR.
Gabriel's expression changed when he saw it.
He did not touch the paper.
May you like
Instead he called the detective back and asked her to photograph it where it lay.
I was no longer sure whether I was being rescued from Adrian's enemies or pulled into the story his enemies wanted me to tell.
