"Yeah." I shut the laptop, unable to look at the screen anymore. "It's not only unethical. It's genocide waiting for a green light."
Michael stood abruptly, pacing the narrow confines of the kitchen. His movements reminded me of a caged animal—controlled energy with nowhere to go.
"Based on her publication history, Evelyn Shaw was developing systems to prevent this kind of autonomous decision-making." I scrolled through her academic papers. "She was advocating for ethical constraints in AI warfare. Then suddenly, she stopped publishing, joined Reeves-Halvorsen, and disappeared a year later."
Michael paused by the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. "An act of conscience. She saw what they were building and couldn't be part of it."
"And Lars Reeves may have had the same realization." I closed the laptop. "What if he wasn't attacking that guard? What if he was trying to stop whatever's happening?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "Then whoever's protecting Asphodel won't stop at Lars."
I bit my lip. "And if the project launches, no one will be safe — not journalists, dissidents, or anyone the system miscalculates as a threat." Whoever had sent messages to my computer, broken into my apartment, and monitored my phone wasn't playing games. "We need to find Evelyn Shaw."
Michael returned to the table. He sat across from me.
He spoke in a careful, quiet cadence. "If these people are willing to silence a billionaire's son, they won't hesitate when faced with a cop on leave or a history professor."
The fear I'd been suppressing crystallized into hard truth. This wasn't academic research anymore. It was life and death—Michael's, mine, and perhaps many others.
"I know, but I can't walk away from this. Can you?"
Michael held my gaze. "No, I can't."
The simple admission felt like a vow between us. Whatever came next, we would face it together.
Michael's body tensed as he began to retreat into himself. I'd seen it before—in myself. It was a common instinct to withdraw when the world became too sharp and dangerous to comprehend.
"You don't have to do this alone." My voice was barely above a whisper.
"I've spent the last week pushing everyone away."
"Your brothers?"
He nodded, raking his fingers through his hair. "Marcus called. Matthew texted. Miles sent memes to make sure I was still breathing."
"And you've ignored them all?"
"I thought it would be cleaner that way. It would contain the fallout."
"Isolate it to only you, you mean." I reached out and rubbed his knuckles. "You need your family, Michael. Now probably more than ever."
He shifted in his chair, discomfort evident in every line of his body. I waited, watching a struggle play across his face.
Michael leaned back. "You said I need my family. And maybe you're right."
"Yes."
"After Dad died, we set up weekly Sunday dinners. They soon became non-negotiable. Every week, no matter what shift we worked, what fight we had, the McCabe brothers showed up at Mom's house."
It was a ritual, and it wasn't about food. It was about proving they were still there and tied to each other. Marissa's family set up something similar with weekly Zoom calls.
Michael continued to explain. "I've never missed more than one, even after deployments. Even after my transfer to SWAT." He shook his head. "I've already missed two since getting back from Tahiti."
The admission was a heavy one. Michael hadn't only created isolation from his family; he'd set himself adrift. He didn't let the love shared in the tradition keep him attached to reality.
He looked like he was fighting himself. It was some invisible, endless war. His hands curled loosely against his mug, flexing once, twice, before he finally spoke. Not rushed. Not casual. Like it cost him something.
"Would you come with me?" he asked in a voice surprisingly steady. "We're allowed to bring guests."
