Page 42 of Duty Compromised

I thought about the computer drive hidden in Charlotte’s lunch box, how close they’d come to getting the stabilizer code. “Can you track where he went?”

“Lost him three blocks away. He had a motorcycle stashed, disappeared into an area with no coverage. But, Ty…” Jace’s voice carried warning. “Whoever this is, is not an amateur. This was planned, executed, and they had an exit strategy.”

“Which means they’ll try again.”

My shoulder twinged, reminding me I wasn’t at full capacity. But looking at that footage, seeing how easily Charlotte could have been seriously hurt or killed, I pushed the concern aside.

“I need you to keep digging,” I said. “Financial records on Vertex employees, anyone with access to Charlotte’s schedule, anyone who might benefit from her failing.”

“That’s a lot of anyone’s.”

“Then narrow it down. Start with recent financial stress, connections to tech black markets, anyone with the skills to plan something like this.”

“You really think it’s an inside job?”

I thought about the sabotaged code, the perfect timing of the accident. “Has to be. Someone knew exactly when she’d be vulnerable.”

“All right. I’ll dig. But, Ty? When Ethan finds out about this?—”

“He’ll understand. Once he knows the stakes.”

Jace snorted. “Right. Because Ethan’s known for his understanding nature when people go behind his back.”

Jace wasn’t wrong. I grimaced. “Just find me something I can use. Thanks, man.”

I ended the call. I stared at the ceiling, mind racing through possibilities. Someone at Vertex was dirty. Someone with access, opportunity, and motive. The question was who.

A sound from Charlotte’s room pulled me from my thoughts. Not quite a scream, but close. I was moving before I fully processed it, pushing open her door.

She was tangled in her sheets, thrashing against some invisible threat. Her face contorted in fear, small sounds of distress escaping her lips.

“Charlotte.” I sat on the edge of her bed, touching her shoulder gently. “Charlotte, wake up.”

She jerked awake, eyes wide and unfocused. For a moment, she didn’t seem to recognize me or where she was.

“You’re safe,” I said quietly. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

She blinked, reality settling back in. “I was back in the car. The glass was everywhere, and I couldn’t move and?—”

“Hey.” I shifted closer, and she immediately pressed against me, seeking comfort. “It’s over. You’re okay.”

She was shaking, fine tremors running through her body. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, feeling her gradually relax against me.

“I’m not usually like this,” she whispered against my chest. “I don’t fall apart.”

“You’re not falling apart. You’re processing trauma. There’s a difference.”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at me in the dim light from the hallway. “Will you stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere. The couch?—”

“No.” She shifted over, making space. “Here. Please. I just… I need to not be alone.”

I should have refused. Should have maintained professional boundaries. Should have remembered this was a job, not personal.

Instead, I kicked off my shoes and lay down beside her, on top of the covers. She immediately curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, one hand resting over my heart.

“Thank you,” she murmured, already drifting back toward sleep.