The next few days passed without incident.
Alice began to appreciate how much could happen in a city without any of it becoming personal.
A stolen car.
A bar fight that turned into an assault.
A teenager caught breaking into a pharmacy because his mother needed medication he couldn't afford.
None of it connected to the Broker.
None of it led toward ValeCorp.
None of it had anything to do with Arthur Martin.
It was exactly what Rhodes had wanted.
Work.
Just work.
And for the first time in a long while, Alice was beginning to believe she could keep it that way.
The call came just after eleven on Thursday morning.
"Pierce."
Rhodes stood beside her desk holding a thin file.
Alice looked up from her computer.
"If that's another parrot complaint, I'm transferring."
"Apartment homicide."
Her expression changed.
"Where?"
"South Halsted. The building manager found the victim twenty minutes ago."
"Anyone else responding?"
"Logan's already on his way. Ortega too."
Alice grabbed her jacket.
Rhodes held onto the file for a moment.
"Are you good?"
Alice looked at him.
It was a simple question.
She knew what he really meant.
Are you sure you're ready?
She nodded.
"I'm good."
Rhodes studied her for another second before handing over the file.
"Then go do your job."
Alice smiled faintly.
"That's what I was planning."
The apartment building was six stories of aging brick and peeling paint.
The kind of place where the elevators complained louder than the residents.
Police tape stretched across the entrance.
Logan stood beside a patrol car, speaking with an officer. Ortega was already inside.
Alice ducked beneath the tape.
"Morning," Logan said.
"What's the situation?"
"Male victim. Forty-three. Name's Daniel Mercer. The building manager says he lived alone."
"Cause?"
"Too early to say."
Ortega appeared in the hallway.
"Bedroom."
Alice followed him upstairs.
Mercer's apartment was small and painfully ordinary.
A television played silently in the living room.
There were dishes in the sink.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter.
The bedroom door stood open.
Mercer was on the floor beside his bed.
One gunshot wound to the chest.
Alice stopped several feet from the body.
No immediate signs of struggle.
The room hadn't been ransacked.
His wallet sat on the dresser.
His watch was still on his wrist.
"Robbery doesn't fit," Logan said.
"Not unless the robber was exceptionally polite," Ortega replied.
Alice crouched near the doorway.
"What's that?"
She pointed toward the floor.
A small smear of mud.
Logan looked down.
"Boot print?"
"Partial."
Alice followed the trail with her eyes.
One mark near the doorway.
Another beside the bed.
Then nothing.
She stood.
"Check the back entrance."
Logan nodded.
Ortega stayed beside her.
"You see something?"
"Maybe."
"What?"
Alice looked at the coffee.
"Coffee's still warm."
Ortega glanced toward the kitchen.
"So?"
"So whoever was here wasn't gone long before the manager found him."
She checked her watch.
"Call the manager back."
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting across from the building manager in the lobby.
His name was Harold Finch.
Sixty-two.
Nervous.
And visibly uncomfortable with police.
"You said you found Mr. Mercer at eleven?"
"Yes."
"Exactly?"
"I don't know. Around eleven."
Alice leaned forward.
"You called 911 at 11:06."
Finch swallowed.
"Yes."
"So you know the time."
"I heard something upstairs. Went to check. Found him."
"What did you hear?"
"A noise."
"What kind?"
He hesitated.
"A door."
Alice waited.
"Then voices."
"What voices?"
"One man's."
"Mercer's?"
"I don't know."
"You've lived here six years. You don't recognize your tenant's voice?"
Finch looked away.
"I didn't hear it clearly."
Alice noticed his hands.
His fingers were shaking.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
"Mr. Finch."
He looked at her.
"Did you see anyone leave the building?"
"No."
"Did anyone come in?"
Another pause.
Then:
"Yes."
Logan glanced at Alice.
"Who?"
Finch rubbed his palms together.
"A woman."
"Description?"
"Dark hair. Maybe thirties."
"What was she wearing?"
"Black coat."
"Did you know her?"
"No."
"Did she say anything?"
Finch shook his head.
"She asked for Mercer."
Alice leaned back.
"Did you let her up?"
"I told her about his apartment."
"You didn't ask who she was?"
"She seemed…"
He stopped.
Alice waited.
"Upset."
"Anything else?"
"No."
Alice closed her notebook.
"Thank you."
As she stood, Finch suddenly spoke.
"She left before I heard the gunshot."
Alice turned.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How long before?"
"Maybe ten minutes."
That changed things.
"Did she come alone?"
"I think so."
"You think?"
Finch looked toward the building entrance.
"There was a man outside."
Alice's eyes narrowed.
"Describe him."
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because he stayed across the street."
Outside, Logan exhaled.
"Could be unrelated."
"Could be."
Ortega joined them.
"You believe him?"
Alice looked across the street.
Traffic rolled past.
People walked along the sidewalk.
Nothing unusual.
"Not entirely."
Logan frowned.
"You think the woman did it?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because she asked for Mercer by name, talked to him, then left."
Ortega nodded.
"And someone else came in afterward."
"Exactly."
Logan looked toward the building.
"So two people."
"Maybe."
Alice stared across the street.
There was an empty bus stop.
A newspaper box.
A coffee shop.
Nothing.
She looked away.
"Let's see what the cameras give us."
The footage gave them almost nothing.
The woman appeared at 10:37.
Dark coat.
Dark hair.
Face partially obscured by an umbrella.
She entered.
Twenty-six minutes later, she left.
No sign of a second person entering through the front.
But there was another camera covering the alley.
Alice watched the footage twice.
At 10:51, a man appeared at the edge of the frame.
He crossed the alley.
Stopped.
Looked toward the building.
Then disappeared.
No face.
No identifying features.
Just a dark jacket and baseball cap.
Logan sighed.
"Great."
Ortega folded his arms.
"Could be the killer."
"Could be the guy taking a shortcut," Alice said.
Ortega smiled.
"Look at you. Becoming reasonable."
"Don't get used to it."
They watched the footage again.
The man stopped outside the building for approximately three minutes.
Then walked away.
Alice paused the video.
"Enhance that."
Logan looked at her.
"You know that's not magic, right?"
"I know."
"Because TV has convinced everyone—"
"Logan."
"Right."
He went quiet.
Alice stared at the frozen image.
Something about the man's posture bothered her.
Not because she recognized him.
She didn't.
It was simply familiar.
The way he stood.
Still.
Patient.
Watching without appearing to watch.
Alice felt the smallest tightening in her chest.
Then she dismissed it.
She had spent too long expecting every shadow to mean something.
This was a homicide.
Not everything was connected.
She needed to remember that.
By six that evening, the case had narrowed into a manageable investigation.
Mercer had worked as an accountant for a construction company.
No criminal record.
No obvious enemies.
No recent threats.
His bank accounts were clean.
His apartment contained nothing unusual.
The woman remained unidentified.
The man in the alley remained unidentified.
It was frustrating.
But it wasn't extraordinary.
Alice sat at her desk, finishing her report.
Logan dropped a coffee beside her.
"You're welcome."
She looked at it.
"I didn't ask."
"You looked like you were about to murder the keyboard."
"Keyboard had it coming."
Ortega walked past.
"Both of you need hobbies."
"You're our hobby," Logan said.
Ortega stopped.
"That's insulting."
"Good."
Alice smiled.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal again.
Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
A message from Dr. Moore.
Thursday session tomorrow. 4:00 p.m. Don't cancel.
Alice stared at it.
She typed:
Wasn't planning to.
She hesitated before sending.
Then pressed the button.
Logan noticed.
"Therapy?"
Alice looked at him.
"Are you spying on my phone now?"
"No."
"Good."
He raised both hands.
"Just asking."
Ortega glanced over.
"Let her have some privacy, Logan."
"I'm being supportive."
"You don't know how."
"I'm learning."
Alice shook her head.
"You two are exhausting."
She stood and picked up her jacket.
"See you tomorrow."
Ortega nodded.
"Drive safe."
That night, Alice stopped at a small grocery store on her way home.
She bought eggs.
Coffee.
Bread.
A bottle of wine.
Normal things.
Things that belonged to a normal life.
She walked outside carrying the bag in one hand.
Across the street, a man stood beside a parked sedan.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
Hands in his pockets.
Alice slowed.
The man turned his head.
For a moment, their eyes met.
Alice stopped.
The man looked away.
Then he opened the driver's door and got inside.
Alice watched the car pull away.
She memorized the plate automatically.
Then she stopped herself.
She almost took out her phone.
Almost.
Instead, she sighed.
"Enough."
She walked home.
Maybe it was the same kind of jacket.
Maybe it wasn't.
Maybe the man hadn't even been looking at her.
Maybe she'd spent too much time hunting ghosts.
At her apartment, she put the groceries away.
She poured herself a glass of wine.
Then sat by the window.
The city moved below her.
Cars.
People.
Lights.
Thousands of strangers living thousands of separate lives.
Not everything was about her.
Not everything was connected.
She took a drink.
And for once, she believed it.
Almost.