Page 57 of Bearly Out Loud

She walked the loft once. Counted the violations. Booth: searched. Desk: opened. Bedroom: dresser drawers ajar, closet door open, but nothing taken. Bathroom: untouched. Kitchen: drawers pulled. No damage. No vandalism. No message.

Clean, professional, and targeted. Someone had sent people who knew what they were doing and exactly what they were looking for.

Nari stood in the center of her living room, surrounded by the wreckage of her ordered world, and did the thing she did when the ground shifted under her feet.

She pulled out her phone and called Takumi.

He madeit in twelve minutes. She heard him coming from the stairwell—sneakers slapping the steps too fast, a muffled yowl of protest, and Takumi’s voice saying, “Shh. We’re on a rescue mission. Act professional.”

He appeared in the doorway holding a cat carrier. Inside it, Emi pressed his enormous orange face against the mesh and stared at the loft with the disapproval of a health inspector.

“Why is the cat here?”

Takumi set the carrier on the kitchen counter. “I panicked. He’s emotional support.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’s judging the situation.” Takumi looked around the loft. His face lost its usual animation, going tight and still. “That IS support.”

He walked the space the same way she had—perimeter first, then booth, then bedroom. She watched him notice the same things she’d noticed: the staged quality of it, the deliberate restraint, the cels untouched on the wall.

“They didn’t take the art.”

“No.”

“They weren’t after money.”

“No.”

Takumi’s jaw tightened. His eyes cut to the booth—to the desk drawer she’d told him about, the one with Hideo’s recordings. “The sketchbooks?”

“Upper West Side. Vault.”

“Good.” He exhaled hard. “Your dad is the most paranoid man alive, and I have never been more grateful.”

Emi made a low, guttural sound from the carrier—a noise somewhere between a growl and a complaint—and Takumi unzipped the top. The cat emerged with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice entering a courtroom, leaped to the counter, and sat. Facing the front door. Ears forward.

“See?” Takumi gestured. “Guarding.”

“He’s staring at a wall.”

“Strategically.”

Nari laughed. It came out wrong—too high, too short—and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stop the second one. Takumi crossed the kitchen in three steps and put his armsaround her. No questions. No commentary. His chin on top of her head, his ridiculous designer jacket creaking as he squeezed.

She let him hold her. Allowed herself the exact duration of weakness she could afford, then pulled back and straightened her spine.

“Okay.” She ran her hands over her face. “Okay. I need to call?—”

She stopped. Because she’d been about to say Dojin. Not the police. Not her father. Not building security. Dojin.

When did that happen? When did the first name in my emergency contact list become a man I’ve been kissing for less than a week?

Takumi watched her face. Read the calculation happening behind her eyes. Said nothing, which was the loudest Takumi had been in the twelve years she’d known him.

She dialed. It rang once.

“Nari.” His voice was warm and steady and immediate—no delay, no sleep-fog, no hold-on-let-me. One ring. Her name. Like he’d been waiting for it.