I rewind again.
And again.
Until I see it.
Three weeks before I ever followed her home.
A delivery driver buzzes her old apartment. She’s not there. He leaves the box at her door.
A plain white box. No label.
I zoom in on the freeze-frame.
Just before he turns.
Something covers his face.
But his hand—There’s a tattoo.
Small. Scripted.
One word.
Venator.
Latin forhunter.
My pulse spikes.
I don’t remember him.
Because I wasn’t there yet.
But he was.
I grab my burner phone and dial a number I haven’t touched in years.
The voice answers on the second ring—cold, precise, female.
“Damien.”
“I need a track on a tattoo. Latin script. Forearm. Might be tied to a dead case out of Devonshire—three years ago.”
A pause.
“You’re not working contracts anymore.”
“This one’s personal.”
Another pause.
“Is it her?”
I don’t answer.
That’s all she needs.
“You’ll have the name in an hour,” she says. Then, sharper: “But Damien—if this is who I think it is, you’re already too late.”
