Chapter 2 - The Two Words Beneath the Photograph.
The two words beneath the photograph were not romantic.
They were not tabloid language.
They were not even written like gossip.
FOUND HIS WEAKNESS.
Blythe stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Then she read them again.
The photograph had been posted to a private social account that Dana somehow followed through a friend of a friend. The image itself had already escaped that account. Screenshots appeared in three local message boards, one crime-reporting forum, and a thread discussing the Alderton gala.
Most people were asking the obvious question.
Who was the woman touching Soren Vanek?
A few had identified the catering company.
One person had zoomed in enough to read part of Blythe’s name tag.
That was when her stomach turned.
She stood from the edge of her bed and crossed her small apartment in six quick steps.
The black card rested in yesterday’s service jacket.
She pulled it out.
No name.
No logo.
One number.
She called.
The line connected before the first full ring.
A woman answered.
“Yes?”
Blythe almost hung up.
Instead she said, “I have a card with this number.”
Silence.
Then, “Your name?”
“Blythe Carver.”
The line changed.
Not the sound.
The attention behind it.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you alone?”
Blythe’s fingers tightened around the card.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Mara Dey. I work for Mr. Vanek.”
“Work how?”
A pause.
“Security.”
Blythe walked to the window.
Her apartment looked down over a narrow street lined with delivery vans, old brick buildings, and a coffee shop that had never managed to spell her name correctly.
Nothing unusual.
That did not help.
“There’s a photograph online.”
“We know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“There are words under it.”
“We know those too.”
Blythe closed her eyes.
“What do they mean?”
“They mean someone wants Mr. Vanek to believe you are being watched.”
“That is not what the words say.”
“No.”
“Then why would they write that?”
Mara’s answer came carefully.
“Because fear works best when it has a face.”
Blythe looked again through the blinds.
A man in a red coat walked a dog.
A woman unlocked a bakery.
Normal morning.
“I met him for less than two minutes.”
“I know.”
“He helped me because Hartfield would not leave me alone.”
“I know.”
“Then tell whoever posted it.”
“That is not how this works.”
Blythe’s pulse increased.
She hated people who used that sentence.
It usually meant the speaker understood a system and expected everyone else to accept being powerless inside it.
“No,” she said. “Tell me how it works.”
Another pause.
Mara’s voice softened by one degree.
“The image was not posted because anyone believes you are actually close to Mr. Vanek. It was posted because somebody wants other people to believe you might be.”
“Why?”
“To force him to react.”
“By threatening me?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“We do not know enough yet.”
Blythe sat at her kitchen table.
Her emergency-room shift started at eleven.
She had laundry in the machine downstairs.
She needed groceries.
Her life had contained entirely ordinary problems eighteen hours ago.
“What do I do?”
“Do not go to work.”
“No.”
Mara did not sound surprised.
“Ms. Carver—”
“I’m scheduled.”
“We can contact the hospital.”
“No.”
“That would be safer.”
“That would be insane.”
“Your photograph is circulating among people who know Mr. Vanek.”
“And my coworkers know me. I am not going to disappear from a shift because a stranger helped me in a hallway.”
Mara exhaled.
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I understand more than you think.”
That irritated Blythe.
Before she could answer, someone knocked on her apartment door.
Three quiet knocks.
Blythe froze.
Mara heard the silence.
“What?”
“Someone’s here.”
“Do not open the door.”
Blythe stood.
“Who did you send?”
“No one.”
The second knock came.
Same rhythm.
Mara’s voice sharpened.
“Move away from the door.”
Blythe stepped backward.
“Can you see the hallway?”
“Peephole.”
“Do not approach it.”
“Then how am I supposed to know who’s there?”
“Ms. Carver.”
Blythe ignored her and crossed quietly.
She looked through the peephole.
A man stood outside.
Mid-thirties.
Dark coat.
Empty hands.
She had seen him before.
The broad security guard from the hotel corridor.
“Soren’s guard.”
Mara went silent.
“Describe him.”
“Tall. shaved head. scar above his right eyebrow.”
Mara cursed.
“What?”
“His name is Emil Novak.”
“Okay.”
“He was not sent to you.”
Cold moved through Blythe.
Emil knocked again.
“Ms. Carver?”
He knew her name.
Mara said, “Do not answer.”
Emil spoke through the door.
“I’m alone.”
Blythe stayed silent.
“I know Mara is on the phone.”
Mara cursed again.
That was worse.
Emil continued.
“Tell her I need 30 seconds.”
Blythe raised the phone.
“He knows you’re on.”
“I heard.”
“What is happening?”
Mara said, “Put him on speaker, but do not open the door.”
Blythe did.
“You have 30 seconds,” Mara said.
Emil answered through the wood.
“The Alderton image came from hotel security.”
Silence.
Mara’s voice turned cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because I found the export log.”
“Who pulled it?”
“Credential belongs to Hartfield’s office.”
Blythe’s heartbeat shifted.
Everett Hartfield.
The man who would not stop touching her.
She had assumed he was simply an entitled donor.
“What does he have to do with Soren?” she asked.
Emil answered.
“More than you want.”
Mara said, “Why are you there?”
“Because Hartfield’s driver was outside her building 12 minutes ago.”
Blythe turned toward the window.
“What?”
“He left before I reached him.”
Mara’s voice sharpened.
“You should have called.”
“I am calling now.”
“You broke protocol.”
“He was outside her apartment.”
Blythe hated the argument happening through her door as though she were a location on a security map.
She interrupted.
“Stop.”
Both voices stopped.
“Emil, step back from the door.”
A pause.
Then footsteps moved away.
Blythe looked through the peephole again.
He stood near the opposite wall.
She opened the door but kept the chain latched.
Emil looked exactly as he had at the hotel except more tired.
“You saw Hartfield’s driver?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know him?”
“I know the car.”
“Why would he come here?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer is getting old very quickly.”
Emil looked toward the stairs.
“Mr. Vanek is on his way.”
Blythe stared.
“No.”
“Ms. Carver—”
“No. Tell him not to come.”
Emil’s expression changed slightly.
People probably did not tell Soren Vanek not to come.
Blythe did not care.
Mara spoke through the phone.
“He is already in transit.”
“Then transit him somewhere else.”
Emil almost smiled.
Almost.
Blythe noticed and disliked him for it.
“I have work.”
Mara said, “We need to discuss security.”
“You can discuss it while I get dressed.”
Blythe closed the door.
She showered in six minutes.
Changed into navy scrubs.
Braided her hair.
Packed lunch.
Then she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at herself.
Same face.
Same faint scar on her chin from falling off a bicycle at nine.
Same exhausted eyes after too many late shifts and not enough sleep.
Nothing about her looked like somebody’s weakness.
Good.
She clipped her hospital badge on.
When she opened the apartment door again, Soren Vanek was standing in the hallway.
Emil had moved to the stairwell.
Mara was nowhere visible.
Soren wore a black wool coat over a dark suit.
No tie.
No amber drink.
In daylight, he looked less theatrical than the internet made him.
That somehow made the danger around him more believable.
His eyes moved to her scrubs.
“You’re going to work.”
“Yes.”
“I was told you would say that.”
“Then why come?”
“To ask you not to.”
Blythe blinked.
Ask.
Not order.
Interesting.
“No.”
Soren nodded once.
“All right.”
That surprised her more.
He handed her a phone.
Small.
Black.
Cheap-looking.
“What is this?”
“Emergency line.”
“I already have your card.”
“This reaches Mara directly even if networks fail.”
“I have a phone.”
“This one has one purpose.”
Blythe did not take it.
Soren lowered his hand.
“Fine.”
“Who is Hartfield?”
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“A businessman.”
“Try again.”
“Someone who once did business with people I know.”
“Your organization?”
“Yes.”
“Crime business?”
His eyes held hers.
“Yes.”
Blythe appreciated the lack of euphemism.
“What kind?”
“That is not something I discuss in hallways.”
“Then why is his driver outside my building?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did you threaten him last night?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone to?”
“No.”
“Do you think he posted the photograph?”
“Someone using credentials connected to his office did.”
“Why would he write FOUND HIS WEAKNESS?”
Soren’s jaw tightened.
“To create pressure.”
“On you.”
“Yes.”
“Using me.”
“Yes.”
The word came without defense.
Blythe folded her arms.
“I’m not available for that.”
A faint change in his eyes.
Recognition.
The sentence from the hallway.
She had not intended it.
“Neither am I,” he said.
For one second, something almost human passed between them.
Then a black sedan slowed outside.
Emil moved instantly to the window at the stairwell.
Soren did not turn.
Blythe did.
The sedan continued.
“Do people follow you everywhere?” she asked.
“Mostly people I pay.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No.”
She stepped into the hall and locked her apartment.
Soren moved aside.
“Will you allow a car to take you to the hospital?”
“I take the subway.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“It is harder to protect.”
“I did not ask to be protected.”
His face stilled.
Blythe continued.
“I asked a stranger for help because a man was harassing me. That does not create a contract.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to reorganize my life because other criminals saw a photograph.”
“No.”
“Then stop looking like you’re about to.”
For the first time, Soren Vanek smiled.
Very slightly.
“I’m trying.”
Blythe walked toward the stairs.
He followed.
“Why?”
She looked back.
“Why what?”
“Why are you helping me?”
Soren’s expression returned to stillness.
“Because my name caused the danger.”
“You didn’t post the picture.”
“No.”
“Then your name didn’t cause it. Someone chose to use it.”
He stared at her.
She continued downstairs.
“That distinction matters.”
At the lobby, Mara Dey waited.
Early forties.
Black coat.
Sharp eyes.
She handed Blythe the emergency phone.
Blythe sighed.
“You two planned this.”
Mara said, “I’m more persuasive.”
Blythe took it.
“Temporary.”
“Of course.”
Soren looked at Mara.
She gave him a look that suggested she had won something.
Blythe went to work.
For 4 hours, nothing happened.
That almost convinced her she had overreacted.
Then an ambulance arrived with a man bleeding through his shirt.
Gunshot wound.
The ER moved.
Blythe took vitals.
Cut clothing.
Helped stabilize.
The patient was unconscious.
Male.
Forties.
No wallet.
No identification.
A paramedic handed over his belongings in a clear bag.
Keys.
Cash.
A broken phone.
And a matte black card.
Same size.
Same texture.
Blythe’s hands stopped.
Not Soren’s number.
Another number.
On the reverse, 2 words handwritten in silver ink.
ASK VANEK.
Her stomach dropped.
The emergency phone in her pocket began to ring.
Mara.
Blythe answered without taking her eyes off the wounded man.
“Tell me you’re somewhere safe,” Mara said.
Blythe looked at the blood on her gloves.
“No.”
“What happened?”
“A patient came in.”
“That is your job.”
“He has a black card.”
Silence.
Blythe turned the card over.
“And a message.”
“What message?”
“Ask Vanek.”
Mara went very quiet.
Then, “Do not say that name near anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because the patient is not random.”
Blythe looked at the monitors.
The man’s blood pressure dropped.
Her physician called for another unit of blood.
Blythe moved.
“What do you know?”
Mara said, “His name is Pavel Dravik.”
“Who is he?”
“One of ours.”
Blythe’s chest tightened.
“Then why is he carrying a message for me?”
Mara answered.
“He shouldn’t know you exist.”
The line went dead.
Ten seconds later, Blythe’s regular phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Taken through the ER entrance doors.
Blythe in scrubs.
Standing over Pavel’s stretcher.
Under it:
NOW SHE’S INVOLVED.
Blythe stared at the words.
Somebody was not just watching her.
May you like
Somebody was writing a story around her.
And every new page moved her closer to Soren Vanek whether either of them agreed or not.
