I flip through the notes. Maya DeCosta. New York address, though she moved apartments just a few weeks ago. She’s not hiding, just hard to pin down, moving between neighborhoods, sometimes traveling for work.
I look up at Nikolai. “You tracking her?”
“Already on it,” he says. “She’s still in the city as far as we can tell. Maybe the only real friend Bella’s got left in the US.”
It makes sense. Bella’s smart, but she’d need somewhere safe, somewhere off the radar. Someone like Maya would open her door, no questions asked.
“We’re going there right now,” I say, pushing back from my desk, not waiting for argument. “Text me the address and have the car out front in five.”
Nikolai just nods, already dialing. He knows better than to try to slow me down when I get like this.
I grab Bella’s photo and slip it into my jacket, heart pounding faster than I want to admit. There’s no time to waste—not with her so close, not when every hour makes her harder to find.
Nikolai’s voice is calm as he relays instructions, but I see the tension in his jaw. He knows what’s at stake.
In minutes we’re out the door, elevator humming, city rushing up beneath us. Every bump in traffic feels personal.
I’m going to find her.
Today.
13
BELLA
Lily is curledon the couch, one little socked foot sticking off the edge, eyes glued to the cartoon on TV. I stand at the window, sipping Maya’s terrible instant coffee, listening to her rush around the apartment, searching for her other shoe.
“I’ll only be gone a few hours,” Maya says, dropping a quick kiss on Lily’s head. “If you need anything, you’ve got my number. Don’t answer the buzzer unless you know them. I’ll text before I’m back.”
“I know, I know,” I say, managing a tired smile. “You worry too much.”
She rolls her eyes but hugs me anyway. “We’ll do the park later. Lily needs air and you need sunshine.”
Lily perks up. “Park?” she asks, mouth sticky with cereal.
“After work, baby,” Maya promises.
She’s gone in a blur—keys jangling, door shutting, her steps echoing away down the stairs. For a while it’s just cartoons and city noise, the muted comfort of a borrowed home.
I curl up on the armchair, my mind racing even as I try to breathe and focus on Lily, on the warm, small, ordinary things.
It’s almost noon when there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze. Lily doesn’t notice, humming to herself, stacking cereal puffs in a plastic cup.
I walk to the door, heart ticking faster. I peek through the peephole. A man stands there—late twenties, maybe thirties, sharp jaw, wearing a delivery jacket and cap. He’s holding something that could be a clipboard, but I can’t make out the logo.
I don’t open the door all the way, just crack it an inch, keeping the chain on. “Yes?”
He smiles, too polite. “Hey, I’m looking for apartment 402. This is 402, right?”
“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Who are you looking for?”
He glances at his phone like he’s confirming. “Uh. Maya. I’m supposed to drop something off.”
Maya would have told me. She would have texted first. She would have warned me.
I take a step back from the door. “She’s not home.”
