Page 168 of Override

The laugh comes again, warmer this time, and something in the middle of my chest shifts. I don't know what it is. I don't particularly care. Which might be the most concerning part of all.

Ten minutes ago, the idea of someone hurting her had sent something so dark and violent through me that I'd touched her without permission. I'd put my hands on her face and said words I hadn't taken the time to analyze first, which is a mistake I don't make.

Ever.

Now I'm sitting across from her, watching her bury her face in an old sweater, and somehow the anger is being pushed aside by something else entirely.

Something warm. Unfamiliar. Inconvenient. I should probably analyze that. Instead, I watch her.

Maeve pulls another shirt from the box and runs her hand over the fabric. Her movements have changed since she opened it. They're softer now. Less hesitant.

For months, I've watched her move through that house as though she were slowly learning to take up less space. She'd started walking more quietly. Sitting more carefully. Laughing less. At some point, she'd stopped dancing in the kitchen while she made coffee.

I noticed because I notice everything. At least, that's what I'd told myself. Now I wonder if that was ever true.

Maybe I noticed because it was her.

"This one was my favorite."

Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

She's holding up a dark sweatshirt that looks like it has survived at least one natural disaster.

I study it. "Why?"

She looks offended. "Because it's comfortable."

"It appears to be disintegrating."

"That means it's broken in."

"That's not how fabric works."

"That's exactly how fabric works."

"I don't think it is."

She narrows her eyes at me. I stare back. A smile slowly spreads across her face. And there it is again.

That feeling.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs as I watch her fold the sweatshirt carefully and place it beside her.

I rescued most of the clothes in that box from trash bags. At the time, I told myself it was evidence. A pattern worth documenting. Ronan was removing pieces of her identity one item at a time, and I needed proof of that.

Which was why I'd dug through bags of garbage. Taken the clothes. Washed them. Folded them. Put them in a box. Then moved the box to my apartment instead of Grayline's evidence storage.

In retrospect, there might have been flaws in my reasoning.

Maeve reaches into the box again. My phone screams. The sharp alarm slices through the quiet room, and Maeve jumps so hard the shirt in her hands falls into her lap.

Shit.

I immediately lift both hands.

"It's okay." Her wide eyes snap to mine. "Sorry. That's my—" I stop. There probably isn't a way to explain that I assign different alert tones based on threat levels without sounding insane. "Phone."

Her eyebrows lift. "Yes. I gathered that."