Page 28 of Override

The exact same amount of time Maeve Gallagher has been living inside this house. The realization lands quietly, but hard enough that my jaw tightens before I can stop it. I keep my expression blank anyway while reconnecting the panel.

“Reasonable expansion,” I murmur.

Murphy nods, relieved I’m validating his employer instead of questioning him further.

That alone tells me more than he probably realizes. People stop examining things too closely once they’ve accepted them as normal. That’s how systems like this happen in the first place.

We continue deeper into the upstairs wing while I catalog every surveillance angle. Most cameras cover broad movement patterns.

Except several don’t. Several are angled specifically toward transitions between rooms Toward hallway intersections. Toward private doors. Toward movement itself.

Tracking. Not security. The distinction matters more than most people understand. A camera facing outward protects a home. A camera facing inward controls it.

My eyes drift briefly toward the upstairs guest hallway.

And stops cold. No camera. The absence stands out so sharply it might as well be glowing. Every surrounding hallway has surveillance coverage except the guest bathroom near the library.

One blind spot. One untouched pocket of privacy sitting in the middle of a monitored house. The exact same room Maeve disappears into almost every night.

Something unsettled moves low in my chest. Not anger exactly. Recognition. Because I understand why she goes there. Not for secrecy. For silence. For one room where the walls don’t watch her back.

I straighten slowly while Murphy answers a radio call farther down the hall, my mind already working through possibilities faster than I can slow them down.

I need inside that room. Preferably alone.

“I need a restroom,” I say casually.

Murphy gestures toward the master suite. “Bathroom’s through there.”

I start walking without hesitation. Then hear footsteps following behind me.

An escort. Cute.

Before I reach the master bedroom door, one of the younger guards steps awkwardly in front of me. Mid-twenties maybe. Former military judging by posture alone, though still green enough that he hasn’t learned how to hide nerves properly yet.

“Uh—not that one, sir.”

I glance at him over the top of my glasses. The poor bastard visibly swallows.

“Mr. Gallagher prefers nobody use the master suite bathroom,” he explains quickly before motioning toward the guest wing instead. “You can use the guest bath here.”

And there it is. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to stop the smile threatening to break loose. Because this kid just redirected me straight toward the only room in the house I actually wanted access to.

God, I love incompetence.

“Appreciate it,” I tell him evenly, giving him a small salute as I turn on my heels.

Then I step inside the guest bathroom and lock the door behind me. The silence hits. No faint electronic hum. No motion sensors clicking alive. No tiny blinking green lights tucked into corners.

Nothing.

For the first time since entering this house, it actually feels empty in here. I stand still for one second longer than necessary, understanding with uncomfortable clarity why Maeve keeps retreating into this room over and over again.

Because this is the only place in the estate where she can exist without being observed. The realization settles heavily beneath my ribs while rain taps softly against the bathroom window.

Not my business, I remind myself automatically. The thought sounds weaker every time now.

I crouch beside the sink instead, opening the hidden compartment inside my tool case and pulling out the microphone carefully between my fingers. Small enough to disappear beneath plumbing hardware. Audio only.