Jenna opened one box, finding framed photographs of herself and Michelle at various events—professional galas, hiking trip, casual dinner with friends. The technical team's manipulation was flawless, creating a visual history that had never happened.
"The bedrooms," Michelle said, leading her down a short hallway. She opened the first door, revealing a spacious master bedroom with an attached bath. "This one has the primary surveillance setup. The bed directly faces the PWC headquarters through those windows."
Jenna glanced at the king-sized bed, then at the discreet camera equipment partially hidden in the bookshelf. An unexpected warmth crept up her neck.
"I'll take the second bedroom," she offered quickly. "I'm a light sleeper anyway—better for monitoring from different angles of the building."
Michelle's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "That works. The communication hub is in the primary closet, but both rooms have access to the feeds."
The second bedroom was smaller but thoughtfully furnished with a queen bed and desk positioned to provide secondary surveillance views. Jenna placed her suitcase on the bed, mentally claiming the space.
"Security walkthrough," Michelle said. "Panic buttons under the kitchen counter, master bathroom, and both nightstands. Press twice for non-emergency contact with Detective Rivers, three times for emergency extraction. All windows are secured with silent alarms."
Jenna followed her through the apartment, absorbing the details while Michelle pointed out the secure communications equipment hidden throughout. The thoroughness of the preparation was impressive.
"The refrigerator is stocked. Pantry too," Michelle continued. "We should be self-sufficient for at least two weeks if necessary. The balcony has restricted visibility from neighboring buildings, but assume we're observed whenever we're outside."
As they completed the walkthrough, a knock on the door tensed them both. Michelle checked the peephole before opening it to reveal Chief Diana Marten.
"Ladies," Diana said, stepping inside and surveying the apartment with experienced eyes. "Settling in?"
"Just completing the security review," Michelle responded.
Diana nodded. "The technical team confirms all systems are operational. Tomorrow morning, you attend your first PWC workshop." Her gaze shifted between them. "From this moment forward, you are Michelle Rodriguez and Jenna Wolfe. Even alone in this apartment, maintain cover in case of electronic surveillance we haven't detected."
The weight of the assignment settled over her—the constant vigilance required, the seamless performance needed.
"Any final questions?" Diana asked.
When both women shook their heads, she nodded once. "I'll be your primary contact through Detective Rivers. Communications protocol as established." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Good luck. Three women deserve justice."
After Diana left, silence stretched between them. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, the reality of their shared space more immediate. They would cook together, eat together, move around each other in domestic patterns they would need to make convincing.
"We should unpack," Michelle said finally, breaking the tension. "Make this place look lived-in."
For the next hour, they transformed the apartment into a home for their cover identities. Jenna arranged books on shelves—business strategy manuals interspersed with fiction that matched Jenna Wolfe's psychological profile. Michelle placed framed photographs on side tables.
The domestic activity required them to navigate shared space, establishing the unconscious patterns of long-term couples. At first, their movements were awkward, too careful. Michelle stiffened when Jenna reached past her to adjust a photo frame. Jenna found herself overthinking each casual brush of shoulders or hands.
"This isn't working," Michelle said finally, frustration edging her voice. "We're too conscious of each other. Too careful."
Jenna nodded, understanding immediately. "We need to normalize contact." She extended her hand deliberately. "May I?"
Michelle hesitated only briefly before nodding. Jenna stepped closer, placing her hand lightly on Michelle's waist asshe reached past her to rearrange items on the shelf. The contact was professional but intimate enough to bridge their carefully maintained distance.
"Like this," Jenna said quietly. "Couples touch without thinking. They acknowledge each other's space while sharing it."
Michelle nodded, and gradually their movements became more natural. Michelle's hand on Jenna's shoulder as she passed behind her. Jenna adjusting Michelle's collar without comment. Small intimacies that built muscle memory their bodies would rely on under observation.
By evening, the apartment had transformed. Personal items created the illusion of shared history: reading glasses beside favorite books, a half-completed crossword puzzle, coffee mugs positioned just so on the countertop. The stage was set.
Later, lying in her new bed, Jenna stared at the ceiling, listening to Michelle moving in the next room. Water running in the sink. Drawers opening and closing. Soft footsteps across carpet.
Tomorrow they stepped into their roles publicly. Tomorrow they became partners in more than just professional designation. Tomorrow they began the delicate dance of deception and truth that might bring justice or danger—possibly both.
Jenna closed her eyes, focusing on the quiet sounds of Michelle's nighttime routine like a meditation. Learning her rhythms. Preparing for the performance of her career. Wondering, despite her professional detachment, what it might be like if any of this were real.
3
