Chapter 2 - The Photograph Taken Before Liam Entered the Restaurant

Khloe almost lied.

Habit told her to minimize.

Nothing happened.

He is just angry.

I can handle it.

Those sentences had protected Liam more often than they had protected her.

She handed Victor the phone.

He studied the photograph.

“Timestamp?”

“Seven forty-eight.”

“You entered at seven forty-nine.”

She looked at him. “How do you know?”

“The front camera logs arrivals.”

Of course they did.

Victor enlarged the image.

Rain reflected in the pavement. Khloe stood beneath the restaurant sign, adjusting her coat.

A dark sedan sat half a block behind her.

Victor zoomed farther.

The plate was unreadable.

“Liam took this?”

“I assume.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Assume.”

His tone sharpened.

Khloe folded her arms.

“You think someone else is stalking me?”

“I think someone photographed you before Liam entered. That is a fact. Who took it is not.”

That distinction bothered her because it was correct.

Her rideshare pulled up.

Victor opened the rear door.

“I’m not getting in if one of your men is driving.”

“It’s your ride.”

She checked the app.

Same plate.

Same driver.

Victor stepped back.

“Text someone when you arrive.”

“I don’t have to report to you.”

“No.”

“You keep saying things like commands and then pretending they aren’t.”

“I don’t pretend.”

Against her better judgment, she smiled.

Then she got into the car.

Halfway home, her phone buzzed again.

Same unknown number.

NO ONE WILL KEEP YOU FROM ME.

Khloe took a screenshot and blocked it.

Another number messaged immediately.

BLOCKING ME IS CHILDISH.

Her hands went cold.

She called her sister.

No answer.

Childcare emergency.

Of course.

Khloe considered the police.

Then memory stopped her.

Six months earlier, Liam had punched a hole through their bedroom door after she confronted him about the missing savings.

A neighbor called police.

Liam had smiled, apologized, and told officers they had been arguing over money.

Khloe had said she was fine.

The officer had looked at the broken door and asked twice.

She had still said yes.

Because Liam stood five feet away.

Because she felt stupid.

Because she had not yet admitted the word abuse belonged to her life.

The rideshare stopped outside her building.

Khloe remained seated.

A dark sedan idled across the street.

She could not see the driver.

Her phone rang.

Victor.

She answered.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your company emergency contact file.”

“That feels illegal.”

“It isn’t.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“Are you home?”

She looked at the sedan.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Khloe.”

She hated how quickly he detected lies.

“There’s a car outside.”

“What kind?”

“Dark sedan.”

“Plate?”

“Can’t see.”

“Stay in the vehicle.”

Her driver glanced back.

Khloe lowered her voice. “I am not turning my apartment into a mafia security operation.”

“You don’t know who is in that car.”

“I know who is probably in it.”

“Probably is not enough.”

The sedan’s headlights came on.

It pulled away.

Khloe watched.

“Gone.”

Victor said something to someone near him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was definitely something.”

“Go inside. Lock your door. Do not open it for anyone.”

She bristled.

“Goodnight, Victor.”

“Khloe.”

She hung up.

Her apartment smelled like lavender detergent and yesterday’s coffee.

She locked both deadbolts.

Then the chain.

Then checked the laundry-room window down the hall.

Still latched.

She hated herself for checking.

In her bedroom, she removed her coat and studied her wrist.

Four red marks curved around the skin.

She photographed them.

This time, she did not delete the picture.

She opened a folder.

Liam.

It contained screenshots she had once kept for practical reasons.

Bank transfers.

Threats.

Apologies.

Photos of the hole in the door.

A voicemail transcript where he said she would regret embarrassing him.

Khloe stared at the folder.

Why had she never called it evidence?

Because evidence meant admitting there had been a case to build.

Her phone buzzed again.

Not Liam.

Her manager at work.

URGENT. Call me now.

Khloe frowned and dialed.

“Khloe,” Martin said, breathless. “What did you do?”

“What?”

“Russo Maritime just requested every shipment you’ve touched in the last six months.”

Her stomach tightened.

“Why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“No.”

“They also want copies of the customs discrepancy file from two weeks ago.”

Khloe sat down.

“That was already resolved.”

“Apparently not.”

A chill moved over her.

That file had been the reason she met Victor.

An incorrect tariff code.

A shipment flagged.

A simple data problem.

Except Liam had started messaging again two days after that meeting.

Khloe opened her laptop.

She accessed the archived discrepancy.

Container number.

Origin.

Vendor.

Customs broker.

The broker name made her stop.

PARKER LOGISTICS CONSULTING.

Liam’s new employer, according to the last message he had sent bragging about his “real job.”

Khloe stared at the screen.

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Her ex had not wandered into the Obsidian Room by coincidence.

He had been connected to Victor’s shipment before he ever walked through the restaurant door.