The constant feeling of being watched in the precinct was taking its toll. Sleep offered little respite, my dreams a confusing jumble of hotel rooms, courtrooms, and Miller's unblinking stare. I was operating on pure adrenaline and years of learned control.
Miller's investigation took a new turn. He requested a mandatory review of personnel timelines for all detectives involved in high-profile cases over the past six months, citing a need to establish a clear picture of movements and activities. This was broader than just the Freeman case, but given its sensitivity and my central role, I knew my timeline would be under intense scrutiny.
I meticulously went through my schedule, cross-referencing official logs, case notes, and my own hidden records. It was a delicate dance, presenting a factual timeline for Detective Blackwood while ensuring there were no inexplicable gaps or overlaps that could hint at my other life. The nights I had been Vivian or Katherine or Simone were carefully accounted for with plausible (though fictional) activities – visiting a friend out of town, dealing with a personal emergency, working from home on unrelated cold cases.
Miller interviewed me again, going over the timeline hour by hour. He was relentless, picking at small details, looking for inconsistencies. His questions were sharp, but I met them with calm, prepared answers, relying on my eidetic memory for the fabricated details. He couldn't find a lie, couldn't find a contradiction in the official record. But the intensity of his gaze, the subtle shift in his posture, told me his suspicion, or perhaps just his professional curiosity about my tight control, remained.
Just as I thought I had weathered that storm, another shadow appeared. Charlotte Coleman.
I saw her outside the precinct one afternoon, standing across the street, just watching the entrance. She wasn't holding a sign or causing a scene; she was just… observing. Her presence sent a fresh wave of unease through me. Had she given up on the digital forensics friend? Was she now trying to identify "V" by observing the police who had handled her husband's case?
I ducked back inside before she could see me. Her persistence was remarkable, and terrifying. She was driven by grief and a need for truth, powerful motivators that made her unpredictable. She was no longer just a victim; she was a potential investigator, operating entirely outside the system, capable of seeing things we within it might miss.
I couldn't approach her again as Detective Blackwood; it would be too suspicious, especially given the previous "chance" encounter in the park. I had to monitor her from a distance, understand what she was doing, and find a way to keep her from stumbling onto the truth.
I discreetly checked missing persons reports and social media for any activity from Mark Jenkins, the bartender. He seemed to have faded back into anonymity after his precinct visit. A small relief, but the description he gave – the intense eyes – was a constant threat.
The subtle surveillance in the precinct escalated again. This time, a small, almost invisible microphone was discovered hidden beneath my desk, disguised as a piece of discarded gum. It was a professional job. Someone was actively listening, not just watching.
This wasn't random. This wasn't just a general leak investigation. Someone was targeting *me*. Was it related to the Network? Were they trying to find out what I knew, or what I was planning? Or was it someone related to my vigilante activities, someone who had a reason to expose or silence Simone Dubois?
I removed the device carefully, ensuring I didn't leave any forensic traces. I didn't report it. To report it would be to admit I was being targeted, to invite further scrutiny I couldn't afford. It would feed Miller's suspicion.
I replaced the bug with an identical, inert one I procured from a secure, off-site source, leaving it for the observer to find, hoping it would buy me time and perhaps reveal their method of discovery.
The walls were not only closing in; they were wired. I was operating under constant surveillance, from an unknown source, while simultaneously trying to keep my secret from IA, from Charlotte Coleman, and from Sterling, who held a dangerous piece of the puzzle. The pressure was immense, but it also sharpened my focus. I had to anticipate every angle, trust no one, and keep moving. The hunter had become the hunted, and the game was being played on multiple boards simultaneously.