Evan Elias Mercer learned early that Washington, D.C. was easier to tolerate before it fully woke up.
At six forty-five in the morning, Constitution Avenue still felt tentative, as if the city hadn't decided yet what kind of day it was going to be. The sidewalks were damp from an overnight drizzle, the monuments half-obscured by low gray cloud cover. Evan liked that version of the city best—unfinished, unassuming.
He parked his black BMW 3 Series E46 in a metered spot two blocks from the DOJ annex near Judiciary Square. The car was clean, current, and deliberately unremarkable among the sedans lining the street. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, a precise, even sound. When he shut the door, it closed with a solid, reassuring weight.
It handled well and responded exactly when he asked it to. He'd bought it carefully, after accounting for costs, mileage, and ongoing expenses. Consulting checks were set aside, travel reimbursements left untouched. Months of restraint for something that made sense on paper and felt right once he was behind the wheel.
The interior always smelled faintly of clean leather and winter air. The steering wheel fit his hands perfectly. He started the engine and let it idle for a moment before pulling away, listening to the sound settle.
He shut the door carefully, out of habit, and paused before locking it. The engine idled smoothly before he turned it off, the sound even. Evan listened without meaning to, then adjusted the collar of his wool coat and headed inside.
The annex building was nearly empty this early. The security guard at the desk glanced up, recognized him, and waved him through without comment. Evan returned the gesture with a small nod, hesitated, then moved on.
His office sat on the third floor, a narrow room with a single window overlooking a service alley. He unlocked it, set his briefcase beneath the desk—centered, parallel—and turned on the desk lamp instead of the overhead lights. The fluorescents were harsh. He didn't need them.
Cold case files waited where he'd left them the night before. Baltimore County. Prince George's. Northern Virginia. Incidents spread just far enough across jurisdictions to make cooperation inconvenient. Easy to pass along. Forgotten. Evan watched those cases longer than most. He knew what happened when responsibility diluted, when a search slowed, when a name stopped being said out loud.
The building settling. The low hum of the ventilation system. Footsteps somewhere down the hall. The wall clock ticked ahead of the digital one on his computer—thirty-seven seconds fast. He noticed it, smiled faintly at himself, and leaned forward.
The second incident occurred thirteen days after the first.
He noted it and moved on.
The fourth came nineteen days after the third. Longer. A pause. Maybe nothing. Maybe a change he wasn't ready to name yet.
He went back to the dates and read them again.
He set the papers aside and pulled a folded street map of the D.C.–Baltimore corridor from his drawer. The creases were soft from use. He preferred paper when mapping space. It let him see the whole system at once.
Red dots marked locations: an alley off H Street NE, a parking structure near Silver Spring, a short walk from a Metro stop in Alexandria. Not clustered. Not random. Evan shifted one dot a fraction of an inch and felt the quiet click of alignment.
There it was.
He recognized it for what it was and leaned back, exhaling slowly.
A pocket watch rested near the window. Evan crossed the room and picked it up, turning it over once before opening the case. He checked the second hand, then set it against the desk lamp, listening as it ticked. Halfway through, he closed it, adjusted the chain by a link, and set it back where it had been.
The rhythm was there again. Uneven, but deliberate. The same cadence he'd seen in the dates. Not identical—but close enough to follow.
"Okay," he murmured.
He returned to the desk, eyes sharper now. Three of the incidents aligned with temporary traffic disruptions—construction on I-395, rerouted buses near Union Station, a briefly closed parking ramp in Arlington. Short-lived blind spots. Convenient ones.
His phone rang at nine exactly.
He flinched—not from the sound, but from the interruption. Still, he answered.
"Mercer."
"Evan, it's Larkin," Special Agent Larkin said. "You still looking at that cluster?"
"Yes," Evan said. "I'm not finished."
A pause. Then relief. "Good. Local PD's already arguing jurisdiction."
"They're connected," Evan said automatically—then softened. "I think they are. I can show you why."
"Can you come over?"
"I'm already in the building."
A short laugh. "Of course you are. Forty-five minutes?"
Evan glanced at the map. "That should be enough."
The briefing room filled slowly—coffee, low conversation, skepticism settling into the corners. Evan waited until the room quieted on its own before he spoke. He kept his voice low. He pointed, explained only what was necessary, and paused when interrupted.
"Response times drop here," he said, tapping a section near Takoma Park. "Behavior escalates afterward. There's no sign of conscious intent, but the change is consistent."
"So you're predicting the next move?" someone asked.
"No," Evan said gently. "Estimating. Enough to justify a look."
That seemed to sit better. A chair creaked. Someone stopped tapping their pen.
Later, as Evan packed up, a senior DOJ official approached him near the window overlooking F Street. Traffic moved steadily below. People crossed the street in loose, unsynchronized groups.
"You drive the BMW out front," the man said casually.
Evan blinked. "Yes."
"Good car," the man said. "Solid choice."
Evan wasn't sure what to say to that. He settled for a nod.
"You do careful work," the man said.
Mid-forties. Jacket creased at the elbows. No tie.
He paused, then seemed to remember himself. He reached into his jacket and produced his credentials, angled just long enough to be read.
"Thomas Hale. Criminal Division. Office of Enforcement Operations."
Evan nodded once. He didn't offer his hand. Hale didn't seem to expect it.
"Most of what you produce gets filtered," Hale went on. "Summarized. Rephrased. By the time it moves, the edges are gone."
"That's the process," Evan said.
"It is," Hale agreed. "Doesn't mean it's efficient."
Evan waited.
Hale studied him for a moment, then glanced down the hallway, lowering his voice without making a show of it. "You ever notice how often things fall apart in the handoff?"
"Yes," Evan said. "Frequently."
Hale's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "That's what I thought."
He checked his watch. "There's a coffee place on D Street. Nothing special. I've got fifteen minutes before my next meeting."
"I don't usually—"
"I know," Hale said, gently cutting in. "This isn't formal. No paperwork. Just a conversation that doesn't belong in a hallway."
He took a step back, giving Evan space to decline. "Up to you."
Evan considered it, then nodded. "All right."
Hale gestured toward the elevators. "Good. You can explain something to me on the way."
"What's that?"
"Why someone who sees as much as you do is still sitting three floors away from where it matters."
After a few words, Hale handed Evan an envelope. Confidential.
"I don't need an answer today," the man added. "Just think about whether you want more room to work."
That evening, Evan drove home along Rock Creek Parkway. The BMW was smooth beneath him. The radio played low—classical, something familiar—and the city slipped past in soft focus.
He stopped at Curry Leaf, a modest Indian spot he'd been going to for years. He ordered a simple chicken tikka with basmati rice and a cup of chai, and ate at a corner table. He noticed the way the steam curled off the food, the clatter of spoons in bowls, the low hum of conversation around him—but didn't dwell on it.
At his apartment, he set the envelope on his desk and made tea. He didn't open it.
He picked up his pocket watch, turning it over in his hands. The weight was familiar. The hinge clicked as he opened and closed it, again and again, feeling its resistance and release. Each movement was steady, deliberate, occupying him without thought.
Dusk settled over the city. Evan lay on his bed, listening to the quiet. The envelope remained unopened. He let the hum of the evening settle around him, and sleep came.