Chapter Twelve
Matt stood at the locker room sink, both hands braced against the edge of the counter as cold water ran over his face. He let it linger, pooling at his chin, dripping down the sides of his neck, sharp enough to sting a little but welcome for exactly that reason. It brought him fully into the present, clearing away the last residual fog of the workout and whatever else his mind had been holding onto before it. The noise in his head—background static, unresolved tensions—had dropped to a steady, manageable hum. His limbs felt coordinated again, his breath no longer tangled with thought. Alignment had returned. But now his stomach stirred, a familiar tightening that reminded him hunger was the next thing to answer. Not a craving—just an alert. A message from the machine.
Outside, Washington was moving in its usual weekday rhythm. The sidewalks were full but not crowded. Traffic edged forward in organized frustration. People walked fast enough to suggest purpose, slow enough to reveal habit. It wasn’t quite noon. The day still had room in it. Matt found a corner spot that sold food without unnecessary interaction, just a quick exchange of payment and motion. He left with a wrapped sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a bottle of water. No one asked his name, and he didn’t offer it.
He carried the bag a few blocks to a park where the sunlight angled cleanly across the benches. The one he chose gave him a clear view of the walking paths but kept his back against a line of hedges. He ate without slowing down to enjoy it, not because he was rushing, but because indulgence wasn’t the point. The sandwich was bland but filling. The fruit—apple slices—crisp, if slightly underripe. He registered texture more than taste. It was fuel, nothing more. Calories in. Function preserved.
When he finished, he crumpled the paper gently, dropped it in the nearest trash can, and left the park the way he came—without drawing attention, without marking the space with anything personal. He didn’t linger. He never did when the objective was complete. Back at the hotel, the room was as he’d left it. Impersonal. Controlled. The kind of neutral environment that didn’t interrupt internal order.
In the bathroom, steam had already begun to curl around the edges of the mirror. He stepped into the shower, adjusted the water until it ran just shy of hot, and stood still beneath it as it poured over his shoulders in steady sheets. The pressure was solid—enough to rinse the tension from his upper back, enough to remind his body that the day was still far from over. He breathed evenly, eyes closed, head tipped slightly forward. For a few minutes, there was nothing but water and breath.
But as the heat soaked deeper, his thoughts shifted without permission.
Petra.
The memory arrived unforced. Not in fragments, but in a whole, intact presence. Her body against his—soft where he was angular, calm where he was still. The way she had occupied the space beside him without shrinking to fit it. She hadn’t filled the silence with anything unnecessary. She had simply been there, fully, without needing to prove it. That stayed with him. The quiet assurance. The clean line of her back against the sheets. The faint scent of her skin. The rhythm they’d found without trying.
He didn’t fight the thought. He let it come, let it breathe. Then let it pass, the same way he had learned to move through distraction: not by resisting, but by recognizing when it had done its work.
He stepped out, wrapped the towel around his waist, and checked the time. Just past twelve-fifteen.
Still damp, he picked up his phone and dialed her.
The line connected on the second ring. Her voice answered without hesitation, and for a moment, everything else stilled. They spoke easily—light conversation without agenda. He told her about his morning in the language he used when truth wasn’t an option: risk reports, corporate consulting, financial assessments. Words chosen for their vagueness, not their accuracy. She didn’t challenge it. She never did. Petra spoke about her day too—meetings, a delay in scheduling, a colleague she found irritating but predictable. She sounded tired, but steady. They touched briefly on the weekend. Neither of them tried to dissect it. It was enough to name it without pinning it down.
The conversation lasted just under twenty minutes. There were things left unsaid on both sides—edges they chose not to test. But nothing about the exchange felt incomplete. There was no urgency, and that was what made it right. When they ended the call, Matt remained standing for a few seconds longer than necessary, letting the quiet hang between the conversation and whatever came next.
Then he dried off, dressed with the same efficiency he always applied, and felt the shift return. The click of focus sliding back into place.
He called Carissa next.
“I lost the morning,” he said.
“You needed it,” she replied, without inflection.
She didn’t ask what had taken him out of rhythm. She didn’t have to. She updated him instead. Her tone shifted only slightly as she walked him through what she’d pulled since the last time they spoke—data tightening, movement patterns refined. The wide net they’d cast had started to pull shape from static. She gave him three locations.
The first was a café that catered to men who lingered without spending much. The staff was indifferent to customers who sat for hours, and the Wi-Fi stayed on without passwords or timers. That kind of anonymity had a pattern.
The second was a Middle Eastern restaurant that stayed open well past midnight. It served traditional halal, but was known more for its late hours and the way its back tables rotated quietly. No bookings. No names.
The third was a mosque positioned just close enough to both to be unremarkable. Enough foot traffic to cover movement in and out. Enough routine to erase the unfamiliar.
Matt listened without interrupting. Took notes he didn’t need to write down. By the time she finished, he had already marked the order.
“In that order,” he said.
“Yes.”
He packed his laptop into the black pack he’d left unzipped on the desk, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out of the hotel room with a pace that looked like leisure but wasn’t. The city was turning toward its second half. Shadows stretching. Street noise deepening. He would begin with coffee. Transition to food. Observe, absorb, blend.
He wasn’t expecting answers tonight.
But if one presented itself, he’d be ready to see it.