Page 52

51

Lena

I go home first.

Shower. Change. Rinse the scent of his house out of my hair—citrus, starch, and a kind of sadness that sticks like strategy.

I try not to think about the way I left. Or the way Quinn looked at me. Or the way Sue said that’s marriage like it was a punchline with no survivors.

I don’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t that .

By the time I get to the office, I look how I’m supposed to look—put together, clear-eyed, a little late but not late enough to raise eyebrows.

Stewy’s in the break room, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, hovering over someone else’s muffin like it owes him rent.

He grins when he sees me. “Look who’s still gainfully employed.”

I fake a smile. “Barely.”

“Rumor is you survived dinner. I’ll admit, I bet my intern you’d cry or quit or both. She owes me a foot rub now.”

“Charming.”

“Don’t be jealous. She has excellent thumbs.”

“Good to know.”

He flashes a smug smile. “So? What’s the verdict?”

“I didn’t peg you for a gossip.” I lie.

“I eat gossip for breakfast.”

“Along with other people’s muffins.”

I grab a cup, pour coffee I desperately need. “Did you know he’s married?”

That gets a pause. Just a flicker. Then Stewy shrugs. “Depends how you define marriage.”

“I define it as having breakfast with his wife. ”

Stewy pauses mid-chew. “Ah. So you met Quinn.”

“She’s not well.”

“No one in that house is, sweetheart.”

He says it flat. No wink, no punchline. Just dead air and muffin crumbs.

I wait.

He doesn’t elaborate.

“What happened to her?” I ask.

He leans back against the counter. “Fell off a horse. Years ago. Real freak accident. No helmet, bad angle. Concussion turned into a coma. When she woke up—things were...off.”

I study his face. “Off, how?”

“She knew her name. Knew Ellis. Knew the company. But it’s like the boot sequence failed. She lost timing. Context. Emotional continuity. And eventually, nearly everything.”

I feel remorse for how I acted. Not complete remorse. But a twinge of something unhelpful. “That’s sad.”

“She used to run the company.”

“I heard that.”

“Most of what you see?” He shovels in muffin mid-sentence, like digestion and gossip go hand in hand. “She built it. This was hers long before Ellis made it sexy. He was the pitch. She was the system.”

“Wow,” I say, hoping he’ll give me more. “I had no idea. That’s actually really sad.” I think of everything I told Ellis—about vet school, about my accident. How he never let on just how much he understood.

“Yeah. Some say the fall scrambled her. Some say the recovery did more damage than the injury. And some say Shergar doesn’t do anything halfway.”

There’s something in his voice. Not doubt. Not fear. Just the casual nihilism of someone who’s seen the curtain pulled back and said meh.

“She remembers more than people expect,” I say quietly.

Stewy nods. “That’s what makes it worse.”

I hesitate. Then ask what I came here to ask. “The woman in the break room. The one I keep seeing—the one who barely blinks. She asked me a question the other day?—”

Stewy tilts his head. “Gillian?”

“I never asked her name.”

“Always wandering, barely blinks? Seems out of it? Yeah, that’s Gillian.” He lets out a long breath. “We call her The Loop.”

“The Loop?”

“She’s been reassigned so many times no one knows who she reports to. Doesn’t clock out. Doesn’t socialize. You forget she exists until she’s breathing on your neck while you microwave soup.”

“Was she always like that?”

“Nope. She used to be sharp. Friendly, even. Hell, I would have slept with her. Might’ve, actually. Can’t remember. Could’ve been her, could’ve been the other one from Legal with the weird knee tattoo.”

Something tightens in my throat.

“What happened to her?”

He shrugs. “How should I know?”

“I asked you about her before. You blew me off.”

“What can I say?” He brushes crumbs off his sleeve. “You caught me in a good mood. I fucking love these muffins. Whatever’s in them—crack, heroin, HR tears—I’m hooked.”

I look down at my hands before I say or do something I’ll regret. One can only take so much of Stewy before murderous thoughts take over. I think of other, more important things.

Cold coffee. Full inbox. New badge.

So many questions.

I excuse myself.

And when I get back to my desk, I don’t open email.

I open internal logs.

Timecards. Trail data. Access history.

And I start digging.