My hand stilled on the bar towel. "Body?"
"Real estate developer. Gregory Marsh. Found him in his office this morning, though the coroner says he'd been dead at least a day." Nathan watched my face with that intensity that should have felt invasive but instead felt like recognition. "Apparently he'd been... extensively questioned before he died."
"How awful," I managed, keeping my voice steady. "Did they say who might have done it?"
"No leads yet. But word is he was connected to some nasty business. Human trafficking." He took a sip, still watching. "Sometimes karma catches up with people in unexpected ways."
After my shift two nights ago, I'd gone back for Gregory. Moved him to a secondary location, asked more questions about Gabriel's supposed death, then left him in his office arranged like a warning. The placement of the body, the careful positioning of evidence about his extracurricular activities—all designed to send a message to his buyer friends.
"Karma's funny like that," I agreed, refilling his glass without being asked. Another habit we'd developed. "Though I always thought karma would be more... poetic. You know? Like if someone hurt girls, maybe a girl should get to return the favor."
"An eye for an eye?" His thumb traced the rim of his glass, and I found myself watching the movement. "Careful. That kind of thinking leads down dark paths."
"Bold of you to assume I'm not already on one."
The words hung between us, too honest for our usual dance. Nathan set down his glass with that deliberate precision I'd learned meant he was choosing his words carefully.
"Actually," he said, tone shifting to something more serious, "I've been meaning to ask you something."
My spine straightened automatically. "Oh?"
"I'm looking for someone." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photo. "A girl. Well, woman now. She went missing about seven months ago."
He turned the phone toward me, and the world tilted.
It was me. Not me-now, with my calculated innocence and pigtails, but me-before. Lilah, according to the missing person report on the screen. Hair darker and longer, face softer without the sharp edges trauma carved, eyes that hadn't yet been emptied and refilled by Gabriel's careful conditioning.
"Have you seen her?" Nathan asked, and I realized he was testing me. He knew. Had known from the beginning, probably. "She might go by a different name now."
I studied the photo with performed curiosity, tilting my head like I was trying to place a stranger. Inside, my mind raced through possibilities. Who had filed the report? Who was I to him? Why was he really here?
"She's pretty," I said finally, handing the phone back. "But no, sorry. I've got a good memory for faces. I'd remember her."
"Worth a shot." He pocketed the phone, but his eyes never left mine. "Her family's worried. They hired me to find her."
"You're a private investigator?" The pieces clicked into place. The observation skills, the careful questions, the way he'd gradually built rapport over two weeks. "That explains the day drinking."
"Consulting detective," he corrected with that almost-smile. "Less paperwork. And the day drinking is purelyrecreational, I assure you. This is the only bar in the city with interesting enough conversation to justify it."
"Flatterer." I moved to serve another customer, needing the distance to think. Lilah had family who'd noticed her absence. Who'd hired someone to find her. The concept felt abstract, like learning about strangers in another country.
When I returned, Nathan was writing something on a napkin. His handwriting was precise, controlled like everything else about him.
"My card," he said, sliding it across. "In case you remember seeing her. Or in case..." He paused, choosing words. "In case you ever need someone who's good at finding people. Or losing them."
The double meaning wasn't subtle. I picked up the card—Nathan Cross, Consultant, with just a phone number beneath. No address, no email, no pretense of normal business operations.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, slipping it into my pocket next to the trafficking phone. "Though I'm pretty good at taking care of myself."
"I don't doubt it." He stood, leaving cash instead of paying by card like usual. "Same time tomorrow?"
"You're very predictable for someone in your line of work."
"Only about certain things." He adjusted his cuffs, a gesture I'd learned meant he was about to say something that mattered. "The girl in the photo—Lilah. Her parents think she was taken. Kidnapped. But I think maybe she ran. And I think maybe she had good reasons."
My throat felt tight. "That's quite a theory."
"I'm good at patterns too." He headed for the door, pausing to look back. "See you tomorrow, Bunny."
