“Looks like a card to me. If he thought they were tracking his phone or intercepting his mail, this is how he’d reach her. Hidden, simple, invisible.”
Before Jason can respond, I shift the camera’s focus to the delivery guy. His face is mostly hidden under a baseball cap, but I don’t need much to feel the familiar jolt in my gut—the one that says we’re not just looking at a simple pizza delivery.
I scrub through the footage, stopping when he turns to leave. The side of his face catches the light, just enough for me to bump the brightness, lower the contrast, take a screenshot, and drop it into the facial-recognition app. While the program processes, I shift focus to the pizzeria logo printed on the box.
“Tramonto Pizza?” Jason reads aloud, eyebrows rising. “Is that even a real place?”
“You’re brave to ask questions after practically giving up on this footage,” I mutter, not even trying to hide the disappointment in my voice as my fingers fly over the keyboard.
“Yeah. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need an apology,” I say flatly. “Just do your job. If one of us starts slacking, we lose everything. You know that.”
“That goes for you too,” he fires back, his voice edging into a challenge.
I pause, shooting him a glance over my shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been drifting,” he says. “Head in the clouds since you started spending more time onthatside of our plan.”
“Yes, because I’m trying to make it convincing,” I snap. “The deeper I go, the faster they’ll start trusting me.”
He holds up a hand in surrender. “Just be careful. Don’t let it turn intosomethingelse.”
I don’t respond. My eyes stay on the screen as the pizzeria’s website loads. It’s a real place, a local business, and everything checks out. But my gut tells me the man in that footage doesn’t belong behind a counter serving margheritas. More likely, the real guy is crumpled up in the back of that van.
Jason’s voice breaks through the quiet. “You want coffee while we wait?”
“Sure,” I say without looking up.
He walks away, presses the button, and the low hum of brewing coffee fills the room. The warm, familiar aroma drifts into my nose, nudging at memories long buried, unfolding before me like a slow-motion reel. Years of nights spent here come rushing back, only the faint glow of monitors cutting through the darkness, Jason and I hunched over cases, Lucia occasionally slipping in pastries to lighten the mood—a small tether to normalcy amid the chaos.
This room has seen it all. It has felt the surge of hope, the weight of despair, and every small victory in between. At first, it was nothing but papers, electronics, and the bare bones of a workspace. Over time, thanks mostly to Lucia, it gained character. Holiday decorations appeared: garlands draped over shelves, tiny Santas and elves perched in corners, Halloween pumpkins with thick cobwebs and fake spiders that seemed ready to spring to life.
Somehow, it felt like a good temporary home, but never a real one.
Gradually, it started to annoy me. I don’t know why, but it did. And I haven’t really focused on that thought until now.
Jason sets a cup of coffee in front of me, and I catch my reflection in the dark brown liquid, distorted by the shimmer of light. Something in me shifts every time I see it—the monotony of waiting and planning barely scratches the surface of what I feel now. The chase, the occasional fieldwork—it all led here, but now… now it feels like I’m waking from a long, half-dead slumber.
Emotions I haven’t allowed myself to feel come rushing in. Faces, fleeting and vivid, fill my mind. Estella—her small scowl when annoyed, the delicate smile that never quite reaches hereyes, the subtle flex of her shoulder as she tucks hair to hide the scars beneath…
I lift the cup in my hand, barely registering its heat. The hot liquid sears my skin, painting it red, but I don’t flinch, just letting myself feel the burning pain. Her scars keep invading my thoughts—the fine, wispy lines that trace her skin, displayed like ornaments, as if they are untouchable threads woven into her identity.
I grip the cup tighter, the heat slicing into my palm and fingers, leaving dozens of fiery tingles in its wake.
What did she feel when she got them? Are there more? What stories lie beneath those marks?
Every inch of her pulls me in with a force I can’t name. It isn’t lust, and it isn’t love. Nothing can account for it. It’s something far deeper, something primal, something buried in the darkest recesses of my soul, and only she has the power to awaken it, to drag it clawing into the light.
“Got this motherfucker,” Jason’s voice shatters the haze, pulling me back.
I snap my eyes to the screen, setting the cup on the table before glancing at my palm. A deep red imprint has formed—a scratch, a second-degree burn at most. Nothing like what Estella endured. Tiny, angry red dots spread across my skin, swelling as I stare, my hand trembling with tiny tremors.
Before Jason can ask the questions I cannot answer, I flip my palm onto my leg, grounding myself, and refocus on the screen. The hacking and facial-recognition process finished while I was lost in thought.
I scan the tabs, my eyes darting between them. “He hasn’t shown up to work,” I mutter aloud. “And this guy was supposed to be replacing him. How fucking smart.”
“Think he’s still in the country?” he asks. “Can we find him?”
