Chapter 25 Safe House

Chapter 25 Safe House
Morgana POV

The safe house smelled like someone else's life—stale coffee and the ghost of cigarette smoke embedded in wallpaper that hadn't been updated since the nineties. I sat at the kitchen table, case files spread across the scarred laminate surface, my third cup of burnt coffee going cold beside Detective Bruno's evidence folders.
Officer Martinez moved past the window for the fourteenth time in an hour, her hand resting on her service weapon. She was young, maybe twenty-six, with nervous energy that made me more anxious than protected.
"You need anything, Ms. Gaius?" Her partner, Officer Chen, stood in the doorway. Older, calmer. His presence felt like ballast.
"I'm fine." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Just trying to make sense of the timeline."
Chen nodded and retreated to the living room. Through the doorway, I could see him settling into the armchair with sightlines to both exits. Professional. Competent. Everything that should make me feel safe but didn't.
I turned back to the file in front of me: Amanda Westbrook, twenty-nine, marketing executive. Her employee photo showed a woman with my hair color, my build, my polished corporate smile. The crime scene photos showed something else entirely.
My stomach lurched. I flipped the page.
Three months of dating app messages between Amanda and someone calling himself "Derek Matthews." The conversation followed a pattern I recognized with sick clarity—compliments about her career achievements, questions about her work schedule, concerns about her safety that slowly morphed into suggestions about where she should go, who she should see, when she should be home.
You work too hard. Someone needs to take care of you.
That neighborhood isn't safe. Let me walk you home.
I worry when you don't text back right away.
I'd read those exact sentiments from David. Thought they were sweet. Thought they meant he cared.
My phone buzzed. Marcus's name lit the screen: Bruno said you're okay but won't tell me where. Can I visit? Need to see you're actually alive.
I stared at the message. Marcus, who'd tried to warn me. Marcus, who'd investigated David when I'd dismissed his concerns as jealousy. Marcus, who'd somehow always known where I was working late, what projects I was handling, which coffee shop I'd stopped at before the office.
Because I'd told him. Because I'd trusted him.
But David had known things I'd never told anyone.
I set the phone face-down without responding.
"Everything okay?" Martinez had returned to her patrol pattern, pausing at the kitchen entrance.
"Fine. Just—" I gestured at the files. "Trying to understand how I missed it."
She glanced at Amanda's photo. "You didn't miss it. These guys are professionals at seeming normal. That's how they get away with it."
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe I wasn't stupid or weak or somehow complicit in my own targeting. But the evidence folders told a different story. Rebecca Torres, Stephanie Porter, Amanda Westbrook—all of us had ignored warning signs. All of us had chosen to see romance instead of predation.
I pulled Rebecca's file closer. Financial analyst, worked two floors below me at Meridian. We'd been on the same project team six months ago. I'd smiled at her in the elevator.
The photos showed her apartment—security chain dangling, broken. No signs of forced entry except that chain, snapped from the inside. She'd let him in.
My hands shook. I pressed them flat against the table.
The dating app messages in her file came from "Daniel Karr." Same pattern. Same gradual erosion of boundaries disguised as devotion. Same questions about her schedule and routines.
Different name. Same man.
I flipped through Stephanie's file. "Drew Kingston." Three different identities across three victims, all professional women, all working late hours, all living alone. David had test-run his approach on Amanda, refined it with Rebecca, perfected it by the time he reached Stephanie.
Then he'd stopped using dating apps entirely. He'd walked into my office and orchestrated a chance meeting at a coffee machine.
The most dangerous predator was the one who learned from his mistakes.
My phone buzzed again. Marcus: Morgana, please. I know you're scared but I'm not him. You know me.
Did I? I'd known David for three months. Thought I'd known him well enough to let him photograph me sleeping, access my apartment, orchestrate my career. What did I actually know about Marcus Webb beyond shared late-night pizza and complaints about quarterly reports?
I picked up my phone, typed: How did you know about the article? The one Jessica Chen wrote about David.
Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Found it through a journalism database. Cross-referenced his name with workplace misconduct. Took me two weeks.
Two weeks. While I'd been dating David, Marcus had been investigating him. While David had been planning my murder, Marcus had been trying to save me.
Or Marcus had been gathering information about his competition.
I set the phone down, rubbed my eyes. This was what David had done to me—made me doubt everyone, trust no one, see predators in every shadow.
Chen appeared in the doorway. "You should eat something. Martinez is ordering Chinese."
"Not hungry."
"Eat anyway. Bruno said you're testifying when they catch him. Can't do that if you pass out from low blood sugar."
When they catch him. Not if. Chen's certainty should have been comforting.
I pulled another file toward me. Crime scene photos from David's apartment—the one I'd never been invited to despite three months of dating. Bruno's notes described it as "sterile, minimal personal effects, consistent with transient occupancy." David had lived there two years according to his lease.
Two years in an apartment with no photos, no mementos, no evidence of human habitation beyond basic furniture. Like he'd been ready to vanish at any moment.
Like he'd done this before.
My phone screen lit up with a new text from an unknown number: The bathroom window opens. Second floor drop isn't fatal. There's a blue sedan two blocks north. Keys under driver's mat. Go now.
Ice flooded my veins. I looked up. Martinez passed the window again, oblivious. Chen had his back to me, watching the front door.
I read the message again. Unknown number. Instructions for escape. A car positioned exactly where someone surveilling this safe house would put it.
David. Or Richard. Or someone working with them.
Or someone trying to help me.
The landline phone mounted on the wall began to ring.
Martinez's head snapped toward the sound. Chen was already moving, crossing the kitchen in three strides, his hand hovering over the receiver.
"That's the secure line," Martinez said. Her voice had gone tight. "Only Bruno and Captain Rodriguez have the number."
The phone rang again. Chen looked at me, then at Martinez.
"Could be Bruno with an update," Martinez offered, but her hand had moved to her weapon.
Chen lifted the receiver slowly, held it slightly away from his ear. "Safe house seven, Officer Chen speaking."
I couldn't hear the response, but I watched Chen's face drain of color.
"Say again?" His voice had gone flat, professional. "I need verification—"
He stopped. Listened. The phone trembled slightly in his grip.
"Understood. Yes sir. Immediately." He lowered the receiver with careful precision, like it might shatter. "That was Captain Rodriguez. We're compromised. Bruno's orders—we move Ms. Gaius to secondary location now. He's en route but wants her out of here in the next five minutes."
Martinez was already moving toward the bedroom. "I'll grab her go-bag."
But Chen hadn't moved. He was staring at the phone like it had grown teeth.
"What?" I stood, the chair scraping against linoleum. "What's wrong?"
"Captain Rodriguez is in Miami at a conference." Chen's voice was barely above a whisper. "I saw the itinerary yesterday."
The phone rang again.
We all stared at it. Two rings. Three.
Chen picked it up. "Yes?"
This time I heard the voice on the other end—male, calm, slightly amused: "Wrong answer, Officer Chen. You were supposed to run."
The line went dead.