Page 21 of Cold Mercy

Still, I knock once, twice. The house remains dead silent. A surge of irritation goes through me; this was supposed to be a prime opportunity.

I turn back toward the car. Grace will have to wait for her update because my time is better spent elsewhere. That's when the sound reaches me. Glass shattering.

It isn’t accidental or distant. It’s sharp, forceful, unmistakably intentional, and the thought hits me fully formed before I can slow it down. Chaos creates opportunity. If Sterling's men are inside, her defenses are breached. If she's self-destructing, she's vulnerable. Either way, this is my opening.

Adrenaline takes over as I sprint back to the car, yank open the glove compartment, grab my gun, and move for the house. The front door gives immediately under my hand, unlocked, unguarded. Are you fucking kidding me? I step inside and move through the first floor, cutting corners, calling her name.

“Sophia, are you here?” I say, keeping my voice level. “It’s me, Thomas.”

Nothing.

I head upstairs, gun raised, the silence pressing heavier with each step. The hallway stretches out long and shadowed with too many closed doors for one man to clear safely on unknown ground. I check the first room on the left.

The door swings open, revealing a master bedroom. It is expansive and meticulously kept. The walls are covered with framed photos of Moreau and Mercer, smiling, frozen in moments that no longer exist.

It feels like a shrine.

I notice a thin line of light spilling from beneath the attached bathroom door that’s slightly ajar.

Then I hear a broken, repetitive voice that sounds like hers.

“Sophia, I’m coming in. If you can hear me, move away from the door.”

My hand doesn't hesitate. I breach the door, my mind flashing through a single, infuriating thought: the subject is terminating before I've even begun the interrogation. I’m about to watch my only lead bleed out on the bathroom floor.

She lies curled on the floor in a tight fetal position, hands clamped over her ears, shaking so hard the tiles vibrate beneath her. There’s shattered mirror glass everywhere. Blood coats her palms and streaks across her forearms, but I don’t see a gunshot, no deep wounds, just dozens of shallow cuts. She keeps whispering the same thing over and over, her voice breaking apart on each repeat.

“It should’ve been me.”

The subject is unresponsive, her body locked in what appears to be a catatonic state.

My knees hit the floor before I've made a conscious decision to move. My hand holsters the gun with a practiced motion; my training acts on instinct while my mind is completely fixed on her. I lift her head gently, pulling her into my lap without a second thought. She clings to me with both hands, still crying into my jeans like she doesn’t even know who she’s touching.

This isn't right. The profile suggested cold, calculating narcissist. The first time, the file in my head doesn't match the woman in front of me.

“Sophia,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low and steady. “I’m here. Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t answer, but her fingers tighten in the fabric like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, slower now. “Did you take anything?”

I check her hands first, then her eyes, her breathing, moving carefully so I don’t startle her. The blood is coming from the broken mirror, shallow cuts, messy but not dangerous. I don’t find anything else. No bottles, no pills, no signs she tried to poison herself.

Her whole body is trembling, a violent shudder I can feel in my own bones. I hold her a little tighter, steadying her not out of kindness, but out of a primal need to contain the perfect fracture she's become. She keeps crying, clinging to me with a desperation that sinks its claws into something deep inside me.

I scoop her up carefully, one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and carry her downstairs to the living room.

She weighs nothing. All that fire and fury, and she's as light as a bird. How can someone this fragile run an empire? The financials don't match the subject. This is either the best performance I've ever seen, or I've misread the entire profile.

I set her gently onto the couch across from the fireplace and pull a blanket over her.

I hate that I’m being gentle. I hate even more that I can’t bring myself to be rough.

“We need to take care of your hands,” I tell her quietly, already moving toward the open-plan kitchen connected to the living room. I open cabinets, scanning the shelves for anything I can use to clean and wrap the cuts.

Before I can tear the place apart searching, her voice drifts from the couch, small and flat.

“Left upper cabinet. By the oven.”