Addison returns to me a few minutes later, expression sharp and contained. She doesn’t thank me or ask questions she knows I won’t answer. She simply holds out her hand. “The photos.”
I pull the flash drive from the inner pocket of my jacket and place it in her palm. It’s warm from my body heat, heavy with what it contains—proof, context, truth wrapped in pixels and metadata. Enough to justify everything that just happened without exposing the hand that caused it.
“This is everything,” I tell her. “Use it carefully.”
She nods once, eyes flicking down to the drive, then back up to me. “I will.”
Kate watches the exchange, confusion sharpening into something more dangerous—understanding without explanation. She opens her mouth like she wants to speak, then closes it again, uncertainty flickering across her face.
I turn away before she can stop me, already mapping my exit through the compound. A vehicle is being prepped on the far side, engines idling low. I’ll be gone in under three minutes.
“James.” Her voice catches me mid-step.
I stop without turning. It’s a mistake. I know it the moment my feet still, but I let it happen anyway.
“You’re not really a photographer, are you?” she asks.
“No.”
I hear her swallow. “A musician?”
“No.”
There’s a pause long enough to stretch thin. When I finally turn, she’s closer than I expected, eyes searching my own like she’s trying to memorize them in case this is the last time.
“Who are you then?” she insists quietly. “Better yet… what are you?”
I hold her gaze for a second longer than is wise. Long enough for her to see the truth I won’t give words to.
“A ghost.”
Her breath hitches. “Is your name really James?”
“Yes.”
“But not Smith.”
“No.”
The courtyard noise swells around us—life pressing in—but the space between us feels sealed off, suspended.
“Will I see you again?”
“No.”
It’s not cruelty. It’s fact.
Her face tightens, something like disappointment and something like relief crossing her features at the same time. She nods once, like she expected the answer even as she hoped for another.
I don’t wait for her to say anything else, or give her the chance to try and hold me here with questions I can’t afford to answer. I turn and walk away. Behind me, the embassy continues to hum with life—safety and stories that will never include my name.
Ahead of me, the road narrows back into shadow, but I don’t look back.
I never do.
11
KATHERINE
