Time to go to work.

Yvette’s already watching you when you walk in, mug in one hand, tablet in the other.

“You’re late,” she says, like it’s a fact, not an accusation.

“You ever try leading with ‘good morning?’”

She tips her mug toward the small lockbox on her desk. “Delivery. San Marcos. Quick trip. You can handle that without getting lost, right?”

You pick it up. Heavy. “No dead zones this time?”

“Nope. Just a drop.” She sets the mug down and leans back, boots on the desk. “But after? Head to the gym. It’s a Rachel day.”

You pause. “We’re back on her?”

“We never left. Just getting creative.”

“Meaning?”

She flicks her tablet to life, scrolling like she’s not about to drop something that’ll ruin your evening. “Griggs is handling the home surveillance. Your job is to figure out where she’s meeting him. If she’s meeting him. Right now, we’ve got a lot of yoga and not much else.”

You lean against the desk. “So I just keep pretending I like downward dog until she slips?”

“Exactly. Try to look like a guy who cares about his core.”

You glance at the box in your hand. “This is a lot of trouble for one might-be-a mistress.”

Yvette snorts. “Mistress who shouldn’t have money. Her background check reads middle-class suburban wallpaper. But the wardrobe, the car, the spa membership…” She gestures vaguely, like the evidence is floating in the air. “Someone’s funding her. The wife thinks it’s hubby.”

“And if it’s not?”

Her mouth curves, just barely. “Then it’s her lead and her money. Either way, we get paid.”

You whistle low. “Patriarchy’s a hell of a ****.”

“Don’t I know it.” She swipes to another screen. “Told the wife about the extra scrutiny. Told her we’d need to up the rates. She didn’t blink. So she’s either **** or loaded. We’re covered.”

“So I play the undercover yogi again.”

“Yup.”

You head for the door.

“Gallagher,” she calls.

You glance back.

Her frown is faint, but you catch the thread of real concern underneath. “Have fun with it,” Yvette says, “but don’t overdo it. We still don’t know what we’re actually stepping in, so tread light.”

“You worried about me, boss?”

“Yeah.” She leans back, casual as a cat. “Because you’re young and still think you can outrun consequences. No one can. So keep it clean. Intel only. Don't be dumb.”

"I'll try."

The drive to San Marcos is quiet.

An hour south of Austin, the city sprawl thins out into scrubland and half‑dead trees. Billboards break up the view — half of them promising barbecue worth dying for, the other half selling salvation in bulk. The highway hums under the Bolt’s tires, horizon flattening into big‑sky nothing punctuated by lonely water towers. You pass old gas stations turned into husks, their signs bleached to ghosts by the sun.

San Marcos isn’t much different than you remember — a college town with its edges fraying. Chain stores and bars near the campus, pawnshops and payday lenders once you drift farther out.

The drop’s easy. In and out. Package scanned, a bored clerk who doesn’t even bother looking you in the eye.

And then you see him.

A boy. Nine, maybe ten. Sitting cross‑legged on the curb in dirty jeans and an oversized hoodie, one of those faces that’s already learned how to shrink. No sign. Doesn’t need one.

Five minutes later, you’re walking out of a taco stand with a greasy paper sack and a soda. You hand them over without a word.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, barely glancing up.

You nod, already turning away — then see him slip one of the tacos into his hoodie pocket. Hiding it.

Curiosity wins.

You follow him at a distance as he drifts off the main street, cutting through a side lot, then into an old abandoned park. Rusted playground equipment. Chain‑link fencing with gaps big enough to crawl through.

And then you see what he's hiding.

A dog. Skinny, matted, ears too big for its head. It thumps its tail when the boy pulls the taco out and sets it down.

You stand there a minute before heading back to the Bolt.

Ten minutes later, you’re back with a twenty‑pound bag of dog food. The boy looks like he might bolt when you approach, but you keep your distance and set it down between you.

“Take it,” you say. “Hide it somewhere. People won’t steal dog food. And if it comes to it, you can eat it. Tastes like hell, but it’ll keep you alive.”

He stares at you, then at the bag. Doesn’t move until you step back. Good instincts.

You pull a crumpled bill from your pocket and fold it into a square and toss it to him. “Hide this."

He takes it, quick as a blink.

“Dogs make good friends,” you add.

Better than most people.

The drive back feels longer.

You pull into the gym where you almost got blown up yesterday. Really takes the shine off the “relaxing spa vibe” they have so carefully cultivated.

You wonder if Simone is working today. Your shoulder still carries that dull, stubborn ache, and to be fair, she was very good with her hands. Good enough to almost make you forget how close that massage came to ending with your intestines splattered on the ceiling.

Rachel’s class is still twenty minutes out, so you decide to kill time in the lobby.

It’s one of those spaces designed to look sleek and inviting, a carefully engineered illusion of comfort that falls apart the moment you sit down.

The chairs are minimalist in that special way where “minimalist” really means “hostile to human spines.” You sink into one anyway and pick up a magazine from the neatly fanned stack on the table, there to serve as a distraction for how expensive their smoothies are.

People Magazine. Centurion on the cover, helmet under one arm, jaw set like the fate of the country depends on his bone structure.

You skim. Same old talking points. First line of defense. Standing strong against NATO. The usual heroic noise. There is a short blurb on Orks, NATO’s first gen Genoseed shock troops. Bottom rung. Breed fast. Die faster. In line with the quantity over quality approach they have to war.

You flip past it. Ads for overpriced supplements, equipment you do not need, and an article about “mindfulness in the workplace,” which you assume is code for silently fantasizing about your boss falling down an elevator shaft.

The clock on the wall says you have five minutes before class.

You toss the magazine back on the table, roll your shoulder until it gives a satisfying pop, and stand.

Time to go stretch with strangers.

You take up position near the back this time. The “blend in with the furniture” approach.

Rachel is already there in her usual spot up front, posture perfect in that effortless way that says she’s had a lot of practice looking like she’s at peace.

Not long after, her shadow arrives. Same guy as before. Shaved head, thick neck, the kind of presence that fills a room without speaking. He posts up in the back corner, not even pretending to stretch. Just… there. Watching.

You watch them both. Wait for something. A nod. A glance. Any acknowledgment at all. Nothing. She gives him one quick look when he walks in, then he’s a ghost to her.

Protection then. From who?

The obvious answer is the wife. Maybe she hired a different outfit before coming to Yvette. The kind who don’t know how to stay invisible.

That would track.

It would also explain why you’re coming up empty. If the husband thinks his wife suspects something, he’d scrub everything clean. Lay low. Make sure there’s nothing to catch.

And maybe that’s the tail’s real job. Shadow disguised as guard dog. Not just to protect her, but to keep her on a short leash. That would track with why you’ve got nothing to show for the last week. If the husband thinks the wife is suspicious, he’d keep everything clean. Nothing for anyone to find.

And that’s when it starts to click.

You replay the first encounter you had with Rachel in your mind.

She was feeling you out.

Trying to decide if you were with him. Which means she doesn’t trust him. Not completely. He doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t trust him. Wife doesn't trust anyone.

It’s messy. Really messy.

You fold yourself into a Half Moon pose, a pose that feels like yoga’s way of testing how badly you want working hips, and make a mental note to workshop your theory with Yvette as soon as you get back to the office.