I know where she lives. I know what her apartment smells like. Dust, old wood, and books. I know the books she keeps by her bed, the careful order of her drawers, the way she’s stripped her space of anything sentimental enough to be used against her.
Except one thing. The photograph.
A single picture, tucked into a drawer she clearly thought was secure. Two girls. Younger. Smiling in a way Rowan never does now.
In the absence of any information on Rowan, I’ve turned to Missy for what I need. I’ve had someone run the scanned photo through facial recognition, missing persons databases, archived local records. Nothing yet. No confirmed ID. No hits that stick.
But that kind of attachment doesn’t vanish without consequence.
I’m waiting for the system to catch up.
Today, I’m watching from my car as Rowan crosses the street and enters a narrow building adjacent to campus. Old brick. Unremarkable. I already know what’s inside.
The campus newspaper. Interesting.
She doesn’t hesitate before going in. That alone tells me this isn’t her first visit.
I consider following her inside. The urge is sharp, immediate. Catch her in the act. See what she’s writing. Who she’s talking to. How deep she’s already digging.
Instead, I wait.
Fifteen minutes later, she comes back out.
And she’s not alone.
Rowan steps through the doors of the building with her arm looped casually through another man’s. They’re close enough that their shoulders brush, close enough that whatever he’s saying has pulled her fully into his orbit. Her head tilts back as she laughs, unguarded, real. The sound carries faintly across the street, light and sharp and entirely unreserved.
My jaw tightens.
The man beside her is tall and lanky, all long limbs and easy confidence. His skin is dark, smooth, catching the late afternoon light, and his hair is a shock of yellow—an afro cropped close to his skull like it’s been sculpted there on purpose. He gestures as he talks, animated, hands cutting through the air, and at one point he reaches out without thinking, fingers settling briefly at Rowan’s elbow as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something shifts low in my abdomen.
She doesn’t pull away.
She leans in instead, listening, smiling up at him like she trusts the space between them.
Something sharp and ugly drives straight through my gut.
Jealousy.
The realization lands almost as hard as the feeling itself.
I don’t do jealousy. I catalog threats. I assess variables. I observe and adjust. This—this visceral, possessive spike of irritation at the sight of someone else’s hands on her—doesn’t fit anywhere in my mental framework.
It makes me lose my footing.
The man adds something else, grinning now, clearly pleased with himself, and Rowan laughs again. Her fingers tighten briefly where they’re hooked into his arm, an unconscious squeeze. Familiar. Comfortable.
Intimate.
I shift my weight, annoyed by the sudden tension coiling through my shoulders. By the heat creeping up my spine. By the irrational urge to cross the street and remind him—whoever the hell he is—to move his hands.
Ridiculous.
I don’t know him. I don’t know what he is to her. For all I know, he’s harmless. A colleague. A friend.
And still, my mind supplies a thousand scenarios I don’t want to examine too closely.
