“Neither do I,” he said. “But I know what happens when people decide someone is a problem. And I know what happens when no one warns them in time.”
Rain moved across the windshield in small slanting lines, as though counting seconds.
“We’re going to the police,” he said.
And for the first time since Daniel passed, I felt fear settle all the way into my bones. Not worry. Not loneliness. Not the dull ache of grief. Fear. Clear and cold and undeniable.
For the first time, I understood how close danger had been standing to my front door.
We did not go to the police station immediately.
At first Aaron drove through side streets and half-empty neighborhoods, looping through blocks that looked almost identical in the dark. Closed laundromats. Corner stores with metal grates pulled down. Fast-food signs glowing above wet pavement. He said very little, letting my breathing slow enough for thought to return in fragments rather than panic.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled.
“I need you to tell me exactly what you’ve been working on at the archive.”
I stared at the rain on the window and the red glow of brake lights ahead of us. Then I told him more. Really told him.
Over the past two months, several civil settlement files had turned up incomplete. Original pages missing. Digital scans altered in subtle ways. Amounts adjusted by percentages small enough that most clients would never notice unless they laid the documents side by side. The cases all involved vulnerable plaintiffs—elderly tenants, injured laborers, immigrants with limited English, people who trusted the system because they had no other option. Nothing dramatic enough to trigger immediate alarm. Just enough to quietly redirect money.
My supervisor had thought at first it was a clerical mistake. Then negligence. Then something more deliberate. That was when she asked me to begin tracking patterns.
Aaron nodded slowly. “Victor talked about settlements. He talked about payouts being delayed and rerouted. He said someone upstairs was getting nervous.”
“Upstairs?” I repeated. “Management? Attorneys?”
“Anyone who signs off without reading closely.”
My chest tightened. “I never took files home. Never. Everything stays locked. Everything logged.”
“I believe you,” Aaron said. “But Victor doesn’t know that.”
He pulled into the parking lot of an old grocery store that had been closed for years. The sign still flickered though the windows were dark and dust-clouded. He parked, shut off the car, and handed me his phone again.
His notes filled the screen.
She checks chains of custody. Audit nights Tuesday, Friday. House empty after midnight. If she has copies, they will be there.
I felt sick.
“You wrote all this down?”
“After the third ride,” he said. “When he started repeating your street name like he was practicing it.”
My hands shook as I scrolled. There was more.
Two nights ago Victor had asked another passenger whether they knew how to disable alarm systems in older homes. The night before that he had talked about garages and back doors and how people rarely reinforce them.
I closed my eyes.
I saw my loose garage hinge. The window that never quite latched. The legal pad that had gone missing.
“I thought I lost it,” I whispered.
Aaron said nothing for a moment. Then he reached into the center console and took out a small digital recorder.
“I started recording his rides,” he said. “Audio only. For my own protection. Passengers consent through the app terms whether they read them or not.”
He pressed play.
Victor’s voice filled the car. Slurred. Irritated. Angry in the careless way drunken men often are when they think no one listening matters.
“She’s careful, but she’s slow. If she figures it out, she’ll talk. I need to get ahead of this.”
The recording stopped.
I opened my eyes and looked at Aaron.
“He is not just watching me,” I said. “He thinks I have proof.”
“Yes.”
“And even if I do not, he thinks my house is where the answers are.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between us, but this time it did not feel comforting. It felt like the space around something final.
Then another thought clicked into place so sharply it almost hurt.
“Victor works nights too,” I said slowly. “That’s how he knows my schedule. That’s how he knows when the building is empty.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened. “He told me he had keys. He said no one checks the basement after midnight.”
The basement.
The archive vault.
My stomach dropped.
“He’s not just altering files,” I said. “He’s covering tracks. Removing originals. Making sure nothing can be traced back.”
“And if you find something first,” Aaron said quietly, “he believes he can find it faster at your house.”
The reality settled over me like ice.
If Aaron had driven me straight home, I would have stepped into a silent house someone else had already marked as accessible.
I wrapped my arms around myself and looked at him. “We can’t wait.”
