“Are you sure it’s him?” I ask because denial is still a reflex.
“Mostly. Or at least… someone who matches him. Same trail, same ghosts. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to be sure.”
My pulse is loud in my ears. “Addison.”
“I know you’ve let it go. I know you’ve built a life without him, but you deserved to know that he didn’t vanish into nothing. He’s just very, very good at disappearing.”
I swallow, my free hand pressing flat against my stomach like that might steady me. Like that might anchor me in the present instead of dragging me backward into memories I boxed up for survival.
“What does that mean?” I ask softly.
“It means,” she starts, then stops, as her eyes flick off-screen.
“Addy? What is it?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her head tilts slightly, listening. The background noise shifts—voices, movement, something hurried just out of frame.
Then a sound cuts through her side of the call, and it takes a second for it to register as an alarm.
Her expression changes instantly. Gone is the teasing, replaced by something colder.
“Kate,” she calls, already moving, the camera jostling slightly. “I need you to listen to me.”
My heart slams into my ribs. “Addison, what’s happening?”
“I can’t explain right now.” Her voice is calm, but I know her too well. Calm means danger. “If I don’t call you back in an hour—“
“Addison—“
“I mean it.” She stops walking, looks directly into the camera. “Do not panic. Do not do anything stupid. Just stay where you are.”
The screen glitches.
“Addy?” I shout, my voice too sharp now. “Addison!”
The call drops, and the apartment is suddenly, painfully quiet. I redial her number over and over again, panic gripping me,settling deeper when no call goes through. I know that alarm. I heard it myself a year ago. It’s happening again. Fuck!
Julian stirs in his crib down the hall, a soft sound that grounds me just enough to keep my knees from buckling.
Please be okay, Addy.
14
RYDER
Job done, another successful mission under my belt. I move through the airport on autopilot, body loose in that familiar way it gets after violence is executed correctly—muscles calm, mind clear, and senses slightly sharpened as if my system hasn’t quite powered down yet.
Christmas is everywhere. Lights wrapped around railings, plastic wreaths hung too close to security cameras, annoying music bleeding from overhead speakers—cheerful in a way that feels aggressive. People move with purpose and anticipation, arms full of gifts, faces softened by the promise of something warm waiting at the end of their journey.
Then the memories hit. A year ago, almost to the day, I stood here with a rifle broken down inside a guitar case, watching a target through glass while Christmas tried to sell itself to the world around me.
Then she happened. Curious eyes, endless banter, a presence that disrupted a clean shot and rewrote the night without asking permission. I exhale slowly and force my attention forward. Nostalgia is a liability, and so is regret. I don’t indulge either. The past doesn’t get a vote.
I move on, boots carrying me through the terminal as if none of it ever happened, as if a woman I never meant to touch doesn’t still exist in the quiet spaces I refuse to examine too closely.
My phone in my pocket vibrates. I don’t stop walking when I pull it out. The screen lights up with a name. Beck. Didn’t we talk two days ago? Why is he calling me again now?
I exhale slowly through my nose before I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear. The noise hits me immediately—voices overlapping, laughter, someone talking too loudly, another shushing them unsuccessfully. A full house. A full life. Everything I chose not to have.
