Or maybe I should stop wasting time with intermediaries and just find Kayla myself. But that would mean abandoning this mission I’ve been forced to undertake in the Albanian estate and potentially exposing her to even more danger.
It’s a fucking mess.
The damp air grows heavier the farther I walk, the stench of rot intensifying until I’m breathing through my mouth. But I ignore it and keep moving, boots squelching against the wet ground, the quiet broken only by the steady drip of water.
Ahead, the tunnel stretches on, a twisting path lined with rusted pipes and roots clawing through cracked cement. My light catches a rat scurrying along the wall, but I don’t slow down. I keep my focus on the ground, stepping around deep puddles, trying not to think about what’s in the water I can’t avoid.
Minutes drag by like hours. My shoulders tense, every small sound threatening to spook me. But there’s nothingdown here except me and the rats. No one else is crazy enough for this.
Finally, the rusty ladder comes into view, bolted against the slick wall, leading up to the round metal cover that opens onto freedom—at least for a little while.
I switch off my flashlight and slide my phone back into my pocket so I can grip the ladder’s cold metal with both hands. Then I start climbing, my muscles straining with the effort. It’s harder pulling myself up than climbing down was, gravity working against me now, but I force myself upward one rung at a time. At the top, I brace my shoulder against the manhole cover and push until it shifts with a low, grating scrape that makes me freeze, listening intently for any sign that someone heard.
Nothing. Just the distant sound of water and traffic.
Keep going.
As soon as the cover is fully pushed aside, cool, fresh air rushes over me, and I gulp it in greedily as I climb out onto damp gravel near the shore. The East River stretches out ahead—dark and wide—with city lights shimmering on the restless water.
For a moment, I just stand there, letting the river and city lights spill out before me. A quick stolen second to catch my breath.
Then my brain slaps me awake.Get moving. You’re on borrowed time.
Glancing around, I dust off my clothes and contemplate whether to pull the manhole cover back into place—but I decide against it. Forcing it open again later would be a hassle, and I need to move quickly to get back before dawn. So I leave it slightly ajar and adjust my cap, making sure every strand of blonde hair is hidden underneath before heading towards the sidewalk where my rental car waits—my go-to ride for easy movement around the city during these secret excursions.
Using my own car would be stupid—Emily and Rafael are actively looking for me, and anything connected to my real identity is an invitation to get caught.
I haven’t been to Manhattan or Brooklyn in ages because of them, which might be why my search for Kayla has hit a wall. Maybe I’d find better contacts and intel out there?
I brush off the thought as I drive into Flushing. No point dwelling on what-ifs.
The hours slip by in a haze of dead ends and false leads, taking me through the seediest parts of the city—smoke-filled back rooms in famous bars, crowded alleyways, dim parking lots where headlights flicker and shady groups gather.
The kind of places I know secret deals happen and information flows like water.
It takes forever before I catch a break, finally tracking down Axe—the man who originally connected me to Hozier, my now-missing investigator. He looks older than his thirty years, thanks to the scar splitting his upper lip and his bad lifestyle choices written across his face.
“I haven’t heard from him in weeks,” he answers around a drag of his cigarette.
Fuck. “Do you know anyone else who’s reliable and fast? I need someone who can find anyone.”
Axe snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Try Luca on 12th. If he can’t help, he’ll know someone who can.”
I thank him and drive to 12th Avenue, but Luca is a complete waste of my time. A thickset man with dirt matted in his hair and a toothpick constantly flipping between his teeth. He looks nothing like an investigator and barely glances up from his phone when I explain what I need.
He just stretches out one meaty palm, waiting. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants.
I grudgingly dig into my pockets and press a wad of bills into his hand.
“Go meet Selina at the docks,” he says, still not looking up. “She’s got her ear to the ground. Or she used to. Could be dead for all I know.”
Fantastic. Very reassuring.
So off I go again, this time to the docks, hoping Selina isn’t dead. She isn’t.
“I don’t trade in missing people anymore. It's a bad business, you know? High risks, very little return,” she spits on the floor as she speaks. “Try Vince in Sunnyside.”
My eyes shut in exasperation, desperate words bubbling at the back of my throat. I don’tneedto be passed along to yet another person. I need actual help. But nothing I say can convince Selina to take my case.
