The text arrived at 7:23 AM.
Need to talk. Not optional.
Five words. No emoji, no "hey," no casual warmth. The Marcus who sent this message wasn't the one who'd made me coffee in his apartment three days ago or traced patterns on my back while we lay in the dark.
This was Detective Bell. And Detective Bell wanted answers.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, Vex watching from her position on my pillow. She'd recovered enough to move around the apartment, though she still favored her uninjured side. The stitches would come out next week.
"That's not good," she observed.
"No."
"What did you do?"
The question was genuine — she didn't know about the Torres job specifically, though she'd warned me about moral compromises at the time. I'd taken the work anyway because the money was good and the execution was clean and I'd convinced myself that clean exits left no traces.
Apparently I'd been wrong.
"Something I thought was invisible," I said. "Turns out it wasn't."
"The woman who escaped? The embezzlement case?"
"Probably." I set the phone down. "I need to go."
"Cash." Vex's voice carried weight. "Whatever he found, whatever he knows — you can't make this better by explaining. You helped a criminal escape consequences. That's not something Detective Bell forgives."
"I know."
"Then why are you going?"
I looked at her — this ancient being who'd watched interesting people burn out and fade away, who understood cycles of rise and fall better than anyone alive. She was asking a genuine question, not offering judgment.
"Because he deserves to hear it from me. Not figure it out from documents." I pulled on my jacket. "And because the version of me that runs from this isn't someone I want to be."
Vex was silent for a moment. Then: "That's either brave or stupid."
"Probably both."
I walked out into the Brooklyn morning, heading toward a conversation that would end something I'd wanted to keep.
---
The precinct was busy with the particular energy of a weekday morning — officers processing overnight arrests, detectives reviewing case files, the constant low hum of institutional purpose. I'd been here before, always as a consultant, always welcomed.
Today felt different.
Marcus met me at the security desk. His face was professional, controlled, every trace of intimacy locked away behind the badge and the duty. He didn't offer his hand. He didn't smile.
"Interview room three," he said. "This way."
Not his desk. Not a coffee shop. An interview room.
I followed him through the precinct, aware of every eye that tracked our passage. Some recognized me from previous visits — the security consultant who helped with cases, who'd provided information that led to arrests. Others were curious, noting the particular tension between us.
The interview room was small, gray, designed for uncomfortable conversations. Marcus closed the door behind us and gestured to a chair.
"Sit."
I sat.
He stood on the other side of the table, studying me with an expression I'd never seen from him before. It wasn't anger — that would have been easier. It was something worse: disappointment mixed with betrayal mixed with the particular hurt of discovering someone you trusted had been lying.
"Rebecca Torres," he said.
The name hit like a punch. I'd been right about which job. I'd been hoping I was wrong.
"The woman who disappeared from Brooklyn six weeks ago. Former nonprofit director. Under investigation for embezzlement when she suddenly vanished — new identity, new city, money to start over." Marcus pulled a folder from under his arm and opened it on the table. "She turned up in Phoenix. Natural causes, believe it or not. Heart attack at forty-three."
I waited.
"When they went through her belongings, they found documents. Financial records. Evidence of the crimes she committed. And details about how she escaped — the methods used to create her new identity, the channels through which she obtained false documents, the specific person who arranged everything." Marcus's voice stayed level, but his hands were tight on the folder's edges. "That person used the name Moriarty."
Silence.
"Is that you?"
I could lie. I could deny. I could construct some elaborate alternative explanation that might buy time, might preserve the relationship we'd built, might let me keep pretending that my two lives could coexist.
But Marcus deserved better than that.
"Yes," I said.
The word hung in the air between us. Marcus closed his eyes briefly — just long enough to process, to accept, to feel whatever he was feeling about learning the truth.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me all of it."
So I did.
Not everything — not the transmigration, not the meta-knowledge, not Vex or the Memory Palace or the things that couldn't be explained in any language Marcus would understand. But the professional truth: how I'd built a reputation as a fixer, how Rebecca Torres had come to me with money and desperation, how I'd helped her disappear because she was willing to pay and I was capable of delivering.
"She stole from a charity," Marcus said when I finished. "From people who donated to help others. And you helped her walk away."
"Her husband was dying of cancer. No insurance. Eighteen months of treatment. She did what she had to do to keep him alive." I kept my voice steady. "That doesn't make it right. But it makes it understandable."
"And you decided that was enough? That one person's circumstances justified another person's harm?"
"I decided the system wasn't going to show her mercy, so I provided an alternative." I met his eyes directly. "I'm not saying I was right. I'm saying I made a choice."
"You made money." Marcus's voice was flat. "Three thousand dollars, according to the documents. That's what helping a criminal escape justice was worth to you."
The accuracy stung. He'd done his homework. He knew exactly what I'd charged, exactly what I'd provided, exactly what kind of person I was underneath the consultations and the coffees and the nights in his bed.
"I'm sorry," I said. "For lying to you. For letting you think I was something I'm not."
"Are you sorry for the job itself?"
The question was a test. I could feel it — the particular weight of Marcus waiting for an answer that might, possibly, give him something to hold onto.
But I couldn't give him that. Not honestly.
"I'm sorry it hurt you," I said. "I'm sorry it led here. But the choice itself?" I paused. "No. I'd make the same call again."
Marcus stood up.
"That's what I thought." He walked to the door, opened it, stood waiting for me to leave. "This is done, Cash. Whatever we were — it's over. Don't contact me. Don't come to the precinct. Don't try to explain or apologize or fix this."
"Marcus—"
"Get out."
I got out.
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