Page 19 of Override

Face recognition gives me a ninety-nine-point-nine-eight percent match. I rename the folder.

MARY COLLINS (MAEVE GALLAGHER)

The alias doesn't bother me. The reason for it does. Why the fake name? Why cash? Why scrub the records? I've spent eight days answering questions for a living. This one refuses to answer back. I shove it aside.

For now.

Because another pattern has been bothering me more. The cameras. I noticed the newest one three days ago outside the second-floor west hallway after Maeve walked past it twice in one evening. Yesterday another appeared near the library staircase. This morning Ronan's contractor added motion alerts to the upstairs wing between midnight and four a.m.

I stare at the estate blueprint beside the live feeds. Most people harden the perimeter first. Exterior cameras. Gate access. Thermal coverage. Gallagher isn't doing that. He's increasing surveillance inside the house.

That...Doesn't fit.

Which means the threat isn't outside the house.

The thought settles in the back of my mind while the estate cameras continue cycling through their recorded feeds.

Kitchen. Main hall. Garage. Rear terrace. Second-floor landing. Then—Maeve.

Without thinking, I stop reading the financial reports altogether.

She moves through the upstairs hallway wrapped in an oversized cream sweater, her dark auburn hair falling loose down her back while one of the house staff follows several steps behind carrying garment bags.

Another wardrobe delivery. I pull up last week's footage beside today's. Same hallway. Different sweater. Different garment bags. Same pattern.

The first time I noticed it, I assumed I was inventing connections where none existed. Wealthy husbands bought expensive clothes. Closets changed with the seasons. Designer labels replaced last year's designer labels.

Normal. Until it wasn't. Eight days is long enough to expose habits. Long enough to expose routines. Long enough to expose replacement. Old clothes disappear. New ones arrive.

Ronan compliments the replacements in public. Pieces connected to her life before the marriage quietly vanish. Family jewelry. Favorite sweaters. Casual hoodies. Bright colors.

Nothing disappears all at once. That would be obvious. Instead...One piece becomes two. Two become ten. And eventually the woman wearing them looks exactly the same. Except somehow...Not at all.

The sweater she's wearing today probably costs more than my car. She still looks uncomfortable in it.

I enhance the hallway audio another twelve percent as the housekeeper says something I can't quite make out.

Maeve smiles. Politely. Not genuinely. Without realizing it, I open another folder.

Behavioral Baseline.

I shouldn't have one. Apparently I do.

Real smile. Slightly uneven. Eyes brighten first. Shoulders loosen.

Public smile. Perfect symmetry. Half-second delay. Never reaches her eyes.

I stare at the notes for longer than I should. Interesting. I tell myself that for what has to be the thousandth time this week.

Interesting. Nothing more. Professional curiosity.

The lie has become familiar enough that I barely notice I'm telling it anymore. On the monitor, Maeve pauses beneath one of the upstairs hallway cameras.

She glances toward it. Just briefly. Then continues toward the guest wing. Toward the spare bathroom.

Again. I sit forward. Day one...Coincidence. Day three...Habit. Day eight...Pattern.

I rewind the footage. Watch it again. Then yesterday's. Then the day before that.