He lifts it to the lens. Most of the page is blank except for the bottom corner, where a few lines of text remain. A fragment of a shipping manifest that never made it to the trash properly.
I read the visible parts aloud.
Departure: Dock 32. Destination: coded.
Dated two days ago. My eyes narrow on the last line.
Crew lead identifier. Initials: V.S.
Misha exhales softly. “That is one of Sokolov’s lieutenants. Viktor Semyonov. He did runs for their human cargo routes back in the day. Mostly Eastern Europe and the Baltics. He went quiet after Thomas Bellamy disappeared. I thought he retired.”
“Apparently not,” I grind out.
If Viktor is involved, this is not simply Ray pulling old strings. This is Sokolov infrastructure leaning in. Men who know how to move people without leaving traces. Men who have done it for years.
“Can we trace the route from the manifest fragment?” I question.
“I doubt it,” Misha answers. “The critical fields are missing. But we know the departure point. We know the timeframe. We know Viktor’s name. That lets us lean on every man who has ever worked a ship with him.”
“Do it,” I say. “I want every contact, port, and warehouse he has used in the last ten years. If he has a favorite pattern, we will find it.”
Misha nods, already pulling his own laptop closer.
We did not get Hope out of this yard today, but we can still pull threads. Threads lead to men. And men talk when persuaded correctly.
I look back at the screen showing the vials on the concrete. At the dent in the mattress. At the overturned plastic cup. Sage sees her sister as she was. Laughing, rolling her eyes, clutching a coffee to her chest. Every new image that attaches itself to Hope in my mind looks nothing like that. Pale, restrained, and drinking water in a warehouse lit by a single bulb. I do not know how to give that to Sage without breaking something in her that will not heal.
“Pull back,” I order. “Your sweep is done. Mark the site. I want men rotating through covertly for the next forty-eight hours in case someone is stupid enough to return. Albert, keep me updated on the SUV. If they make contact with anyone we recognize, I want a full report.”
“Understood,” he replies.
The feeds start to blink out as the teams withdraw. The warehouse fades back into darkness, leaving only my reflection on the black screens.
Misha closes the laptop halfway and studies me. “What do you want to tell Sage?”
“The truth,” I breathe.
He lifts a brow. “All of it?”
I think of Sage in that bed. The tremor in her hands earlier. The way her voice caught when she asked, on the drive here, if I truly believed we could find her sister.
“She deserves the truth,” I say slowly. “But not in a way that makes her drown faster.”
“You will have to walk a very fine line,” Misha murmurs.
“I have done worse.”
He studies my face a second longer, then nods. “I will start working on Viktor’s pattern. We will have something more solid by tonight. Maybe sooner if one of his old captains decides he likes breathing more than he likes loyalty.”
“Good.” I pick up the phone from the desk. “Keep me updated.”
He leaves the study, closing the door softly behind him. Vega lifts his head and nudges my leg once, as if to say that whatever game of ghosts I intend to play now, I do not play it alone.
I give him a brief scratch behind the ear and step back into the hallway.
The house is quieter now. Staff move around, but they do it in the way my people learn from the beginning. Efficient and intentional with no wasted sound.
I find myself back where I started, outside Sage’s door. Vega settles beside me again as if this is exactly where we belong.
