Chapter 1: The Weight of NothingIt was 2:47 in the morning when I finally decided to count the pills.I had been sitting on the edge of my bed in room 6B of the Ashford Hotel for the past hour, just staring at the bottle in my hands, turning it over and over like it might tell me something I didn't already know. Forty-three pills. I counted them twice just to be sure, spreading them across the bedsheet in neat little rows the same way I used to arrange mise en place back when I still had a kitchen to call my own.The room was exactly as miserable as you'd expect from a condemned building in the Tenderloin. Cracks running up the walls like veins, a water stain spreading across the ceiling that seemed to grow larger every single day, and a window that let in more cold air than it kept out. Eviction notices were taped to the door—five of them now, layered on top of each other because the landlord had stopped bothering to remove the old ones before adding new ones. I had stopped reading

Chapter 3: They Killed Her For ItI never got an answer to that question. Not from the silence, anyway.But I spent the rest of the night looking for one. By the time gray light started creeping through the cracked window, I had read every single file on that USB drive. My eyes burned and my back ached from hunching over the laptop screen, but I couldn't stop. Every file I opened led to three more questions. Every answer revealed another layer of lies beneath the lies I had already uncovered.My mind was working the way it used to work in the kitchen during a rush. Organizing ingredients. Understanding how elements combined. Seeing the connections between things that seemed unrelated on the surface. Except instead of building a dish, I was mapping out the recipe of my own destruction.David Lowell had introduced me to Victoria Harrington at a fundraiser three months before I signed the lease on Vesper's building. Victoria had recommended the lawyer who drew up my business loan. That l

Chapter 5: The WarehouseI nearly crashed three times before my vision cleared enough to see the road again.The first time, I drifted into oncoming traffic and only swerved back when headlights filled my windshield. The second time, I ran a stop sign and missed a parked delivery truck by inches. The third time, I mounted the curb and took out someone's garbage cans, the sound of plastic and metal scraping against the SUV's undercarriage loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.But somehow, impossibly, I kept driving.The translucent interface didn't disappear. It faded, pulling back to the edges of my perception like an afterimage that refused to die, but it was still there. Waiting. I could feel it hovering at the corners of my vision, patient and impossible and completely insane.I drove to the Bayview warehouse on pure instinct. My hands knew the route even when my brain couldn't focus on the street signs, muscle memory guiding me through roads I had navigated a thousand times

Chapter 7: Ledger EyesThree days passed in the warehouse, and somewhere along the way I stopped being Marcus West the chef and started being something else entirely.Jerome recovered slowly, sleeping most of the first two days and only managing to stay awake for a few hours at a time by the third. The antibiotics were working—his wound wasn't infected, his fever had broken, and the color was coming back to his face. He wasn't dying anymore, which was about as much as I could ask for given the circumstances.I ventured out for food and supplies, always careful, always watching for surveillance. The stolen SUV was the first thing to go—I drove it to the Mission District and left it in a parking garage with the keys in the ignition, hoping someone would steal it and muddy the trail. After that, I walked everywhere.It was easier than I expected to disappear.San Francisco has invisible populations—the homeless, the day laborers, the addicts and mentally ill who wander the streets withou