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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Evangeline

Knight’s hands hover over the keyboard, but his attention keeps shifting to the cell phone on the table. One hand moves, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against the desk while he stares at the small black device like it might bite him.

For the past hour, I’ve watched while he worked through the information on the screen, scribbling notes in an illegible shorthand only understandable by him. Each new discovery seems to wind him tighter, adding layers of tension to his already rigid posture.

He mutters a curse, straightens abruptly, and snatches the phone up. His fingers move over the screen, hitting numbers without any hesitation, and then he lifts it to his ear. I can just about make out the sound of ringing … and then someone picks up. The voice is male, but the words aren’t clear to me. Whatever they are, they make Knight roll his eyes.

“I’m fine.” His voice carries that familiar sardonic bite. “The apartment situation is handled. Stay out of it.”

Whatever response he gets makes him press his lips into a hard line. The fingers of his free hand spread against the desk surface, then curl into a fist.

“And that’s why you need to leave it alone.” The fist on the desk tightens until his knuckles turn white. “I’ll explain when I can. Right now, I need you to keep him from doing anything stupid.”

I pretend I’m reading the words on the laptop screen in front of me. The incomprehensible logs scroll past, while I try not to obviously listen to his conversation.

“Tell him to stop. This isn’t his kind of problem.” He shifts in his chair, tension radiating from his shoulders. “Someone is playing a game. Don’t help them by walking into it.”

Silence falls. My fingers clench in my lap, as the tension builds in the air.

“It’s bad enough that I’m telling you to stay out of it.” His voice drops lower. “Look, I’ll be in touch when I can. Just … stay clear until then, alright?”

The call ends. Knight stares at the phone for a couple of seconds before setting it down. When he looks up, the intensity in his eyes makes me turn away.

Questions burn in my throat, but the expression on his face suggests that now would be a bad time to voice them. Instead, I stay silent while he returns to analyzing the logs, and try to work out why someone like Knight would be warning people away from this situation.

The contrast between my quiet life before meeting Knight and this current reality hits me hard. A week ago, my biggest worry was whether the police would turn up at my door and tell me my brother had been found. Now I’m in a safehouse with a man who treats security systems like puzzle pieces, watching him unravel whatever game his mentor is playing with our lives.

His fingers resume their tapping against the desk, but the rhythm is different now. More focused. Like the call cleared something in his mind.

My thoughts shift to those late nights in the stacks, messaging someone I thought was Knight. Someone who always seemed to know what I wanted to hear.

The isolation of those evening shifts made me vulnerable. It’s clear to me now. No one noticed the dark circles under my eyes from staying up too late, searching for answers. No one questioned why I spent my breaks searching for news articles, or calling hospitals asking about any John Does that might have turned up. No one saw how desperate I was becoming.

No one, except the person pretending to be Knight.

The tapping stops abruptly. When I look up, Knight is staring at something on the screen, his expression shifting from focused to intense in a way that speeds up my heart.

“What—”

He holds up his hand for silence. His attention stays fixed on the screen, and I’m reminded that this is what he does. This is who he is. Someone who can look at streams of data and see patterns no one else can see. Someone who can take apart a virus and find messages hidden in its attack. Someone who just warned people away from whatever game we’re caught up in.

The silence goes on, broken only by the soft hum of the generator. Outside, the world continues, unaware of the tension filling this small space, and the way Knight’s focus has sharpened into something almost predatory as he studies whatever he’s found.

My wrists itch beneath their bandages, a constant reminder of how this started. How thoroughly Victor manipulated me into delivering what he needed. The late-night messages, the build-up of trust, the way he used my desperate need to find Michael. All of it designed to get me into Knight’s apartment, carrying that phone.

But why? What game requires this level of preparation? What could be worth spending weeks engineering the perfect way to breach Knight’s security?

Movement draws my attention as Knight shifts position, his hands moving back to the laptop’s keyboard. His methodical way of working reminds me of the way I organize books in the library. But where I deal with paper, he manipulates data and code. The irony isn’t lost on me. I spend so much time around stories, but failed to recognize when I was being written into one.

“You keep staring at me.” Knight doesn’t look up from the screen. “It’s distracting.”

“Sorry. I was just …” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

I was just what? Watching him work? Trying to understand how I ended up in this mess? Wondering who he was warning away? What he’s not telling me?

“Think quieter.” His fingers move across the keyboard. “Your mental spiraling is giving me a headache.”

I should be offended by his sharp tone, but there’s something almost reassuring about his constant sarcasm. It’s real to me in a way those late-night messages never were. The fake Knight was all understanding, and warmth, and sympathy. The real Knight doesn’t even try to pretend to be anything except what he is.

And what is that?

An accomplished coder, for certain. A hacker, highly likely. Someone who doesn’t like having people in his space, that’s a definite.

The laptop screen casts shadows across his face as he works, his eyes moving as he reads lines of code I have no idea how to decipher. Everything about him speaks of power and absolute control … except for that irregular tapping of his fingers. It betrays tension even he can’t completely hide.

A car passes outside, its headlights sweeping across the window. Knight’s attention snaps up, tracking the car as it drives through the rundown parking lot. When the engine sound fades, his attention returns to the screen.

I wonder how many years it takes to develop that kind of awareness. How many lessons learned the hard way.

"Stop."

"What?"

“ That .” He waves a hand vaguely in my direction. “The analyzing. I’m not a book to be categorized.”

Heat fills my cheeks. “I wasn’t?—”

“Yes, you were.” But there’s something almost amused beneath the irritation in his voice. “Focus on something useful that isn’t my profile. Like what made you such a perfect choice for this game.”

What did make me perfect? My isolation? My desperation to find Michael? Or something else? Something I don’t understand?

I open my mouth to respond, but Knight’s attention has already shifted from me. Whatever he’s looking at holds him completely, the tapping of his fingers finally stopping as he leans closer to the screen.

Without that subtle sound, the silence feels heavy. Almost like the quiet in the library after closing. But this isn’t the peaceful solitude of empty stacks and closed books.

This is the silence that happens before something breaks.