Page 55 of Beautiful Savage
"You didn't even look."
"Don't need to. You already decided."
She laughs—a full, bright sound, nothing like her laugh around strangers. It fills both rooms, gets into everything. I keep thinking I'll get used to the easy intimacy of living with her, but it still throws me off. For nine years I lived alone, the only voices in my apartment the ones on the radio, the only color on my walls the grayscale of CCTV stills. Now there's a person, a woman, not just existing in my space but actively rewriting it, one brush stroke at a time.
She turns and studies my face, eyes narrowed just a little. "You could help, you know."
"I am helping," I say. "I'm the audience."
She snorts. "Audience brings coffee."
I set down the mug I've been nursing and fill another for her. She takes it, hands stained with green and yellow, and sips without comment. The mug leaves a half-moon on the dropcloth. She's already forgotten about it, absorbed again in how the paint looks as it dries.
The scene is so domestic it feels like a hallucination. I keep waiting for the spell to break, for the old violence to come knocking. Sometimes I think I miss that part of myself—the one that lived only for the hunt, that needed nothing and no one. But then I see Daphne's bare feet in the sunlight, the way she hums under her breath, and I know that's a lie.
I return to the photographs. The kitchen counter holds forty-three surveillance photographs in neat rows. Last month's documentation from the Coral Gables house, each image timestamped and recorded. This is my first detailed review of these specific photos, though I've been tracking Hallstein for years. Tuesday's grab is four days out, and I'm tying up every loose end.
Hallstein entering his house, 8:45 AM. Hallstein with his driver, 10:25 AM. Hallstein on the porch with his wife in her wheelchair and Camille behind her, 2:15 PM.
I study this third image carefully. Hallstein's hand at Camille's lower back, fingers spread in that controlling way men like him touch what they think they own. His wife vacant-eyed in the wheelchair. Camille's professional smile.
But then I see it.
My hand freezes over the photograph. My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
Camille's left wrist. Where it rests on the wheelchair. There's a bruise around it. Finger-shaped marks, dark against her skin. Two days old when this was taken, judging by the color. The gripping pattern of someone who held too hard.
I've reviewed surveillance of the house before, but never noticed this detail. I've tracked Camille in my files as "non-target, civilian, background only" since she started workingthere. She's been in that house caring for his wife, and I missed this.
Everything shifts. The plan, the timing, all of it. The pieces fall into place fast. What I should have seen: Camille alone with Hallstein while his wife sleeps. Years of access. Years of opportunity for him to do what he does. She's the live witness I told myself didn't exist.
Two minutes of complete stillness while the recognition settles like lead in my gut. All this time, she's been trapped with him.
The grab has to change. Hallstein can't know we're coming for Camille or she disappears. She has to be pulled at the same moment he goes down. The Delgado resources, the Rosetti contacts, Logan's people, everything has to align perfectly.
"Come here."
The words come out sharper than intended. Daphne sets down her paintbrush immediately, crosses through the doorway. Paint fumes cling to her clothes. She stops beside my stool at the kitchen counter, her head still lower than mine.
I turn the photograph toward her. "I missed something."
Daphne studies the photograph the way she studies everything. Complete, patient, seeing what others miss.
As the seconds tick by in the dim room, I shift on the stool, legs tense. Thirty seconds of silence stretch between us. Daphne's gaze isn't on Hallstein first but on Camille's body in the photograph—the tilt of her shoulders, the arch of her back, the trembling hands.
After a beat, she taps the glossy photo. "The bruising on her wrist," she says softly. "Someone grabbed her, held her when she tried to pull away."
I lean forward, breath catching, as she traces Camille's back. "See how her body angles away even though his hand'sthere? Micro-avoidance. She's forcing distance while looking compliant."
She moves her finger to Camille's other hand. "White knuckles gripping the wheelchair. That's pure fear."
I exhale. "Dammit."
Daphne flips the photo, tone flat and final. "She's living it now. While we analyze old evidence, she's stuck in that house with him."
Her words land like a fist. I rub my jaw. Hundreds of days Camille's endured what these images only hint at.
My hand slides to the dossier folder on the table. I curl my fingers around its edge. "We have to get her out."
