Page 227 of Override

Mrs. Henderson took her dachshund out at 10:13.

The college kid from 2C came home carrying pizza at 10:31.

The elevator stopped on this floor twice after that, neither person lingering outside my apartment long enough to warrant attention.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

So why do I keep checking?

I stop outside the master bedroom again.

The hallway light casts a thin line beneath the door where Maeve went almost two hours ago, and I find myself listening despite already knowing there's nothing to hear. She's either asleep or reading on the Kindle Bullet dropped off earlier. Either option is acceptable. Both mean she's comfortable enough to stop scanning every room she enters.

That should be enough for me.

It isn't.

I force myself to continue down the hall and back into the guest room, closing the door behind me before sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress still feels temporary even after eight months. Functional. Efficient. Nothing about it invites you to stay longer than necessary.

My phone sits on the nightstand. Without thinking, I pick it up.

Matt.

No.

He'd know something was wrong before I finished the first sentence, and then Rachel would know, and by breakfast tomorrow the entire team would somehow be discussing my emotional state over coffee.

Bullet.

Absolutely not. He'd smirk for thirty seconds before saying something infuriatingly accurate.

Wheels would laugh.

I set the phone back down.

I've managed to eliminate every available option without solving the problem that made me reach for it.

Which probably tells me more than any conversation would have.

I lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling, folding my hands across my stomach the way I always do when I'm trying to organize my thoughts.

The problem isn't security. I've checked the apartment enough times to know that.

The problem isn't Maeve. She's asleep down the hall, finally somewhere no one can tell her what to wear, where to sit, or who she's allowed to speak to.

So why does every instinct I have keep pulling me toward that hallway?

For one completely irrational second, I consider grabbing my blanket and sleeping outside her bedroom door.

The thought lingers longer than it should.

From there I'd hear anyone approaching the apartment before they reached her door. I'd hear the elevator stop. The stairwell door opening. Mrs. Henderson's dog shaking its collar every night around eleven. Every variable would be closer. Every response time shorter.

It would also be insane.

Maeve has spent months trying to convince herself that being watched wasn't normal. The last thing she needs is to wake up tomorrow morning and find me camped outside her bedroom like some overprotective guard dog who doesn't know when his shift ends.

I rub a hand over my face.