The guy in the glasses cuts in. “I think the threat to the girl is growing by the second. We found supplies for a kidnapping at the location that went dark.”
I nod once. I’ve thought that too.
Archibald turns to me again. “And you’ve been chasing this for how long?”
“Since sophomore year.”
“Does she know that?”
“No.”
He gives a low laugh. “Jesus, Hayden.”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
“It does if she finds out.”
“She won’t.”
He doesn’t press, but I can feel the judgment. Doesn’t bother me—Archibald’s the last person in the world who gets to lecture me about secrets.
The guy scrolls the map again. “There’s one more thing,” he says. “Three nights ago, the movement stopped. Suddenly. Like someone shut it down.”
That’s when the letter arrived. I don’t say it out loud. But I know what that timing means. He’s on the move, and Martine’s on a clock. A muscle in my jaw jumps, and I clench my teeth. The only one allowed to hurt her is me.
We’re back on the plane before the sun’s down.
Archibald’s quiet until the cabin door seals shut and the engines fire. Then he turns in his seat, facing me full-on. Shooting me the same look he gives people right before he breaks their fingers for information.
“Alright,” he says. “Start talking.”
I don’t respond right away. Pour myself a drink—ice clinks. I take a sip.
He waits.
I let him.
“You don’t just chase ghosts, Hayden. You’re methodical. You don’tcareunless it’s necessary. And this, ” he gestures toward the folder, the frost on the windows, the dead-end coordinates, “this is you caring. So I want to know why.”
I look at him. “The Society gave me the assignment two years ago. Said there was intel buried deep in the Huntington-Russell bloodline, something we missed. They weren’t specific. Just told me to follow anything tied to Martine’s mother.”
“That was probably easy considering she was the most outrageous socialite.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Except she wasn’t as transparent as they thought. Turns out she had a connection to Marchand.”
Archie tilts his head. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. Marchand owns Club Seraphim.”
He whistles. “The one Dex always went to?”
“Yeah, theprivateone. Invitation only.”
“And her mother was going there?”
“With Henri,” I say. “Regularly.”
Archie leans back, lips parted like he’s about to say something, but can’t decide whether to mock me or take it seriously.
