Page 29 of The Final Contract

The elevator dings, doors sliding open, and the moment cracks in half like it never existed.

Down the hall and inside, she stops at the kitchen island and drops her purse with a soft thud. I set the envelope down beside it—the sound sharper, a flat smack against the counter.

“Don’t touch it,” I warn, already moving.

At the end cabinet I’ve got a stash—security-guard essentials just in case. I tear it open, pull out a pair of gloves, and snap them on. The latex clings, sealing me into that headspace I know too well: threat assessment, not emotion.

I ease the flap open with my blade and tilt the envelope. A glimpse is all I need for my jaw to lock tight. Photos. Of her.

My chest burns, but I push it down, scanning for residue. Edges clean. No visible powder. I bring it close and sniff, sharp and cautious. Nothing.

“Get me a bag and a swab,” I tell Finn, voice clipped.

He’s already gloving up, pulling a field-test kit from his pack. Sera—pale but steady—opens a drawer and pulls out a gallon-size Ziploc bag. She holds it up. “This okay?”

“That’s good, babe.”

The word slips out before I can catch it. It scrapes my throat raw, and I nearly choke on it. I act like nothing happened. So does she. But her cheeks flush, betraying her. Finn doesn’t so much as twitch. Professional to the bone.

He rips open a swab. I take it, brush the cotton carefully along the envelope’s seams, corners, between the photos. I watch the strip like it’s gospel. White. Still white. No reaction.

“I still don’t want you to touch them,” I tell Sera. She needs to hear it, understand it. “I’ll take them out, but you keep your hands clear. We’ll still send it off just in case.”

Her voice strains thin, like she’s holding something back. “Do you think he would try to poison me?”

She blinks fast. Not enough to stop the tears.

Fuck. Every instinct in me screams to close the distance, to wrap her up and make her believe nothing can get through me. But I stay rooted, jaw tight, and hand Finn the envelope instead. He slides it into the bag.

I catch the top photo as I pass it. My gut knots. “He gave this to you while you were out. If he hoped you’d open it, it could’ve been laced with something—something to make you groggy, sick. Force you to the bathroom. Separate you from me.”

Her hand trembles against the counter.

“Not knowing who the prick is means we don’t know what he wants,” I press. “So we act like he’s capable of anything.”

Her gaze drifts to the photo in my hand. It’s from her date with Elijah a few nights ago—plates midcourse, salads half-eaten. Taken through a window, which means the bastard was across the street, watching.

“The date was last minute, but he still found you. That’s the message.” I’m talking to Finn, but Sera breathes, almost too soft to hear, “Oh my God.”

“That’s another clue.” I want her to hear the reassurance in my tone. “Somehow he’s got access to you. We’ll figure out how.”

I slip the photos into the bag, peel the gloves off, toss them in the trash. Seal the bag, hand it to Finn. “Get one of the guys to take it in for testing.”

Sera’s pale, her posture unsteady. “You should lie down,” I suggest.

“No. I don’t have time. I need a shower.”

Dammit. I was hoping she’d cancel the date. “You could?—”

“No.” Her chin lifts, stubborn as I’ve ever seen her. “I’m not letting him scare me into the dark. Into hiding. I’m not giving him that.”

I get it. I hate it. But I get it.

She turns toward her bedroom, and I call after her, “Mind if I scan your purse for trackers?”

I already did. First day I found out about the stalker, I swept her entire place—her car, her clothes, her bag too. But I need peace of mind. He could have slipped more than just an envelope in there.

“Have at it,” she says, vanishing into her room.