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Beatrice

That feeling stuck with me the rest of the day—the one that pressed like a weight just under my sternum, cold and sharp. Something was off. Katherine’s mood. Her sudden defensiveness. The missing flash drive.

I didn’t say anything else. I knew better than to push her when she was already on edge. But I started keeping notes of my own—written in a little spiral-bound notebook I kept in the glove compartment of my truck, the same kind I used in the field to sketch out hazard maps.

That evening, after my shift, I drove to the marina. Not to meet Raven, though God, I wanted to. I needed his voice, his calm logic. But he was across the world right now—leading a mission in Iran to rescue Navy SEALs. I couldn’t reach him, and I didn’t want to put this on his shoulders.

Instead, I sat on the hood of my truck, watching the wind whip across the water, pen in hand.

June 12

Katherine lied about the flash drive.

Tense behavior all day. Defensive. Paranoid?

I believe, she’s hiding something.

I tapped the pen against my knee.

And then I wrote the question I didn’t want to admit:

Is Katherine the one who planted the bomb?

It sounded crazy. Outrageous. Except it didn’t. Not anymore. The pieces were small—glances, shifts in tone, that loaded comment about everyone trusting me. But when I looked at them together, they started to form something sharp-edged and dangerous.

I closed the notebook and locked it away.

Tomorrow, I’d come in early again. But not to review notes. I needed to check the system logs—Katherine’s login times, her file access. The station had digital backups. Even if she deleted something, there might still be a trace.

If I was wrong, I’d owe her an apology. A big one.

But if I was right…

I didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, I whispered into the wind, “Please, Raven. Come home soon.”