It looks fake, like I made it up. A placeholder in a story I’m still trying to believe is mine.
I highlight it.
Hit backspace.
I type Astrid Jones.
Then undo it.
I don’t know who I am tonight. Harvard grad, future finance exec, unwanted orphan, child of two dead parents with dangerous connections. The only thing that feels remotely real is the pulsing ache in my core and the memory of a stranger’s mouth on mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut and groan.
I open a new file and title it DEEP DIVE_PRIVATE. I encrypt it and start typing everything I found at the archives. Dates. Names. Donation paths. Every piece of digital evidence I uncovered.
It feels empowering, like building armor out of information.
Then I check my email. There’s one from my foster mom, Mara Jones. It’s a sweet check-in asking about Paris, if I’m eating enough, and if I’ve taken any pictures yet. My throat tightens.
Mara and Carl gave me everything they could. A home. A name. A second chance. I became Astrid Jones instead of just some girl chasing a bloodstained legacy.
But now I wonder if that legacy is going to come knocking no matter what name I use.
I close my laptop and go to bed, trying to breathe around the lump in my throat.
I can’t sleep. I try, but my thoughts are like fireflies—darting around in unpredictable patterns, impossible to trap.
I get up and throw on a pair of jeans, slip into my boots, and head out into the Paris night.
The city looks different after hours. The streets near the Seine are quiet, glistening with residual rain. Cafés hum with a few lingering locals and night owls nursing espressos and cigarettes.
I stop at one on instinct and sit at a tiny iron table. I order a hot tea just to have something in my hands.
I pull out a small notebook—my analog backup for sensitive data—and scribble down key names. Thierry Devereaux. Melanie. Ivanov Holdings. Foundation Saint-Laurent.
I underline Ivanov three times.
The waiter brings my tea. I thank him and glance across the street.
That’s when I see him.
A man in a dark suit standing by a lamppost, just far enough away to be inconspicuous. He’s not smoking, not scrolling through his phone.
He’s watching the street.
Watching me?
My pulse skips at the thought. I look back at my notebook and tell myself I’m just being paranoid. I’ve been digging intodangerous things, chasing shadows, and it’s messing with my head.
When I glance up again, he’s gone. Vanished into the night like the man on the plane. Like the man I passed on the street earlier.
I pack up fast, tip too much, and hustle back to my hotel.
Every click of my boots on the pavement sounds like a warning. Every passing pedestrian feels like a threat. I check over my shoulder three times before reaching the entrance.
Back in my room, I double-lock the door and flip the latch.
Then I open my encrypted file and start typing again, faster this time, documenting the man in the suit. He was too far away to identify any defining features.
