Lars slides a piece of paper toward me. “She checked in at that hotel under Bianca Simpson. No other information was given.”
My eyes skim the page, catching on the name like a thorn. Cheap. Forgettable. She thinks aliases will keep her hidden.
“What room?”
“Seventeen. Second floor,” Lars replies.
I push off the table, already heading for the door. Obsession drags me forward like a leash, every step heavier, sharper. I won’t delegate this. I need to see the space myself, feel it, pull her ghost out of the walls until it tells me where she went.
The lockon the door of her room is pathetic. One flick of my pick and the door gives, swinging open. I slip inside, closing it behind me with a soft click. The deadbolt slides into place beneath my hand.
The air still holds her. Clean soap layered with something floral, the scent that clings to a room long after she leaves. It hits me like a drug. My chest tightens. My cock stirs. She was here.
The blinds are drawn tight, the room dim. A half-empty water bottle sits on the nightstand, long gone warm. A coffee cup slouches in the trash, the faint ring of lipstick on the rim like she left it there for me to find. A chair is crooked at the desk, pushed back in haste, like she stood up fast and never sat again.
I move through the space slowly, cataloguing every piece of her. I start in the bathroom, where her body wash rests in the shower. I pick it up, open the cap, and breathe in deeply. The smell reminds me of her skin, her softness. I set it on the counter where I find makeup scattered across the vanity, brushes dusted with powder that matches her skin. My fingertips trail over the counter, almost reverent, before I step back into the bedroom.
The closet holds a few things—shirts, dresses, a robe. But it’s the duffel bag on the floor that pulls me to my knees. I crouch down, unzip it, and the breath leaves my chest.
Dancer gear. Sequins, straps, thin costumes meant to be torn off by greedy eyes. And then—A thong. Black. Barely a scrap of fabric.
I lift it between my fingers, the delicate stretch of lace obscene in my hands. I bring it to my nose. Her. Every trace of her pressed into the fibers. My cock aches against the press of my zipper. I fold it into my palm and slip it into my pocket like contraband, like a prize no one else can touch.
Then I dig deeper. Beneath the costumes is cash. Stacks of it, bound with rubber bands, filling the bottom of the bag like asecret life she never wanted me to see. Beside it, a black clutch purse that rattles when I lift it.
Inside are two burner phones. Both powered down.
I roll them in my palms, turning them over, searching for scratches, numbers, anything that could betray her trail. Nothing. Clean. Too clean. The kind of absence that screams effort. She wasn’t drifting through shadows by accident. She was off-grid with intent, cutting herself loose from every tether.
Cash. Burners. A visit to a dying man who carried one of the bloodiest surnames in Chicago. Piece by piece, the picture sharpens, and it makes my chest burn. This isn’t a girl with secrets. This is a woman trying to stay hidden.
The questions come like a warning, curling under my ribs. A predator’s instinct telling me I’m not circling prey—I’ve stepped into a minefield, every detail rigged to blow.
I drop the clutch onto the bed, the weight of it dull against the spread, and lower into the desk chair. Elbows braced on the arms of the chair, I press my fingers hard into my temples until my pulse throbs there. Pressure builds behind my eyes, the kind that comes from too many patterns trying to lock into place at once.
Kavanagh. The name beats through me. Declan, Lachlan’s son, the heir they once paraded as the future of their empire. Dead now, but not before she walked into his hospital room. The only ones close enough to him at the end—his wife and her.
I never heard her claim a surname, but the bloodline stares me down all the same. The one time I met Declan at a gala, his smile was all charm hiding sharpness. And in the quiet of this room, I can almost see it again—etched faintly across her face, as though every secret she thought she buried is already written in her bones.
I pull my phone from my coat and tap Rowan’s name. The line rings once before he answers.
“Boss.”
“I need you to find something,” I say. “I need information about Lachlan Kavanagh. I know about his son, Declan. I want to know about any other children.”
There’s a pause, a click of keys. Then silence.
“Give me five.”
Another click. An exhale.
“Got something,” he says. “A daughter. Name is Zara Kavanagh. Born thirty-two years ago. Mother’s name redacted, but the girl’s legit. No activity in the last few years. No digital trace at all.”
My spine straightens. Blood shifts in my veins.
Zara.
“She went dark?” I ask.
