The plan, as I recall, was simple. I didn’t check Shay’s notes, but I imagine they look something like Tris + stalker = confession. A formula even Tristan could understand. What would be a bit more difficult was actually building a case. I’d tracked the intrusion back to a girl names Stacey Addams, but for it to hold any weight, we needed her confession.

Trouble was, Tris was the one talking to her.

Shay had procured a wire from somewhere, and insisted he put on a bulky shirt so she could hide it. Now, as we were making the short trek to the nearest pub, she explained the plan to him one more time, in hushed tones.

“I feel bad about this.” I had no doubt he did, he’d repeated it about four times since they’d left his home. “I don’t want her to go to jail because of me.”

“She won’t.” Shay assured him, again. “Not if everything goes according to plan. Which is…?”

“I’m going to tell her I like the shirt.” He remembered, “And I’m going to ask her where she got it from. And then I’m gonna ask her why she thought I’d like it.”

“Right. She nodded, “Just be your charming self and talk to her.”

“That’s good.” He smiled, nervous. “I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“And if anything happens, Aiden and I will be there to help you out.” She patted him on the shoulder, had to reach up quite a bit to do so. “Don’t look so nervous. We got this.”

“If you say so.” He grabbed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed it briefly. “Your plans always work, Doc.”

(They don’t, not always, but neither of us knew at that time.)

The pub was calm for a Friday afternoon, and we easily found a booth while Tristan sat down at the bar. Shay sat facing the door, leaving me to keep an eye on the bar. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.

“Relax.” She didn’t pull her eyes from the door. “This’ll be an easy one. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.” I felt like I was about to be in a shoot-out. I never thought I’d have to consider escape routes in a pub.

“You ran a background check, yes?” She met my eyes before looking back out. “She’s not a fighter, and there’s no way she’s carrying a gun.”

“So what’ll happen?” I was almost disappointed I had to forget the shoot-out. Maybe one day. “Worst case scenario?”

“She wants to impress Tris.” She pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “Even if she suspects anything, she won’t make a scene.” She motioned over her shoulder. “She’ll make it to the ladies’ room, maybe leave from there, but I’ll be able to intercept her.”

“What are you doing?” I eyed the scribbler. It looked well-worn, and she opened it half-way, but I could not for the life of me think what she’d be jotting down at that time. Exit points, maybe? Was she going to make a detailed note of the conversation?

“Looking busy.” she opened to a page of scribbles, seeming to read the last line and continuing below. “We’d stand out, just sitting here.”

“You stand out more, now, pretending to write like that. This is a pub.”

“It’s steno.” She dug through her pocket and pulled out a tenner. “Get us something pubby, then. Diet coke for me.”

I decided to push my luck, “No nibbles?”

She pulled out another ten. “Go wild.”

Ten minutes after I’d gotten our drinks and a pork scratchings, she suddenly perked up. The book closed, her hand resting on it protectively, and she stared at the door with a strange focus.

Obviously, she’d seen something. “What’s-”

“Shh.” She eyed the clock above the door. “Something's wrong.”

“Because she’s late?” I checked my watch. We still had five minutes until the meeting time.

“No.” She emptied her glass. “She’s early. She’s here.”

“Wha-” On instinct, I turned, locking eyes with the blonde I’d seen on her profile pictures. Trouble is, she saw me, too, and she clocked that something wasn’t quite right. For a moment, she seemed frozen, her gaze flicking between me and Shay. Then, an eternal second later, she was gone.

“Shit.” Shay was up before I really registered it. “Shit, I was wrong.” She grabbed me, pulled me out by the wrist and dragged me along until I found my feet. She was surprisingly strong.

“She’s a runner!” She let go of me as soon as we were out the door, sprinting to where we saw her turn a corner.

I followed, of course.

My stamina isn’t great, and back then. it was even worse, so there was no way I’d keep up to them, but I tried. I came very close to catching up once or twice, but when they swerved left into an alley and past a skip, I lost them. There was a scuffle, a slam against the skip, a yelp, and I turned the corner just in time to witness Shay pin the woman to the ground by sitting on her.

“We just want to talk.” She huffed, slightly out of breath. “Stop squirming!”

Stacey buckled like a wild horse, face wrought with anguish. “You set me up!”

“No, I- argh!” Shay pushed down, seemed to steel herself for something. All I could do was watch.

“Stop it.”

It was pure, ice-cold, rock-hard steel that poured from her lips, and everything stilled. Stacey, me, the traffic behind us probably. I remember the shiver that ran down my spine, the feeling that I had to straighten my back and behave. That voice, that tone, and suddenly I knew why everyone listened to her. It wasn’t the charm, there were no smiles left here, no gentle merriment, and it chilled me to my core.

Two words. Rock-hard ice water, and everything stilled. All that was left was laboured breathing.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” She started, warmth seeping back into her voice. It was almost gentle, in comparison. “Just let me ask a few questions.”

Stacey almost sobbed, all fight having left her body. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“You won’t have to.” I watched as she sat back, climbed off, pulled the other up. “Just talk to me, okay?” She offered an almost kind smile. “You recognised me in the bar, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Stacey sniffed. “I saw you in the gym a few times, you’re famous.”

“I know.” The smile she gave then was kind, and warm, and it was getting harder and harder to believe that she could be cold, too. “And you saw Tristan, too, didn’t you?”

“He worked on me a couple of times.” She nodded, “I had a knee injury.”

“And you fell for him.” She’d sat down cross-legged, as if this was a slumber party. Huh. “I understand, he’s very sweet.”

“And I thought- but he didn’t-” She was properly crying, now.

“I know.” She wrapped an arm around her. “I know. You know, you did some impressive hacking, if it had just been me, I wouldn't have found you.”

(Convenient, how she left out that she wouldn’t be looking.)

“Thanks.” Stacey sniffed.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Internet.” She wiped at her eyes. “I found some tutorials, figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Clever.” She let go, turned the woman so she could look her in the eyes. “You listen to me, okay? You don’t need Tristan.” She paused for a moment, let the words sink in. “He’s a sweetheart, a real good guy, but you don’t need him. You’re smart, and resourceful, and one hell of a runner. All you need is you.”

“You-” She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Bit cookie-cutter, isn’t it?”

“So are Newton’s laws, doesn’t make it any less true.” She dug through her coat, pulled out a business card. “This is a friend of mine, David. Go talk to him someday, tell him Shay sent you.”

“Thank you, I- oh.” Her eyes landed on her shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

Shay glanced down, and I looked as well. It was true; at her right shoulder, a crimson patch had formed the size of a two-pound coin.

“It’s nothing.” She glanced at me, assured me as much as her. “You slammed me into the dumpster a bit weirdly, opened an old wound. Nothing serious.” She stood, made a small noise as she pulled the fabric away from her skin. “Though I should change my shirt before Tristan sees me, he’d be worried sick.” She held out her good hand to Stacey. “Promise to call David?”

“I will.” She smiled, “I promise.”

“Good.” She turned, tossed the keys to me. “Come on, Carlyle will kill me if I don’t let him patch me up.”

I looked at the growing spot of red. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m good.” She waved it off, like she’d bumped her shin, like she wasn’t bleeding from a wound that looked more serious by the second. “Old war wound. This happens sometimes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It will, in the morning.” We’d reached the car, and she got in. Aside from her arm, everything seemed to be in working order. “It still aches a bit from where your boss tied me to a pipe.”

“Ex-boss.” I smirked at her. It seemed important, at that moment, to remind her which side I was on. I was on hers, now, the side of the good. It was a giddy feeling. “What happened to it, anyway?”

She was silent for a moment. Almost subconsciously, her hand came up to rub at her shoulder, missing the spot, tracing the line of a scar that just poked out above her shirt. Then, her voice carefully nonchalant, it came out with practiced ease.

“I was shot.”

“I’m sorry.”

It shocked me into silence, but something started to turn in my head. Slowly, creaking with rust and puffing with dust, gears started to turn. It made sense. Everyone around her treated her like she’d been through a lot, like she’d lived her life and deserved a rest. Peter acted as if she was some gumshoe PI, weathered and tired and never playing it by the book. Carlyle was basically her private nurse, giving her food and making sure she drank and counting her pills, and- that number system they had. And Fox. At the time, I hadn’t met many shady mysterious government agents, but even then, I realised it wasn’t normal for one to calmly break you out of imprisonment in the middle of the night.

They treated her like they knew something. Like they were in on this massive secret, on this elusive history that passed just by the rest of us normal people.

There, on that silent car ride back, I resolved to change that. I resolved to document her life, find out whatever she’d been up to before I met her, and put it out for the world to see. That notebook of hers would be a good place to start.

So I did.