“Yes.But he keeps his hands clean, hiding behind lawyers, donations, and compromised officials.His public image is armor, protecting what he really is.A trafficker.A collector of victims.”
I see it then, all of it clicking into place so fast I feel nauseous.
Dove being dragged into white rooms and soft voices and hands that pretend they’re helping.Dove being told she chose this.Dove being erased carefully, methodically, until no one knows where to look.
“That’s why Jag surrendered.”I push off the wall and pace.“He knew.He fucking knew what Crowe would do to her.”
Monty’s hand comes up, gripping my arm, hard and grounding and necessary.
I can barely breathe.
“This isn’t ransom.”Acid rises in my throat.“It’s inventory.He intends to traffic her.”
“No.It is more complicated.”Mikhail doesn’t look up.“I found a file on Crowe.Jag Rath has been stalking him for… Twenty years.”
“What?”I shift closer and squint at the screen over Mikhail’s shoulder, my pulse climbing.
Folders nest inside folders.Time-stamped photos.Crowe stepping out of private jets.Crowe laughing at galas.Crowe shaking hands with men who dominate headlines.Shipping manifests.Flight numbers.Guest lists.
Jag collected twenty years of this shit?That’s not curiosity.It’s obsession.
What’s his infatuation with Adrian Crowe?
Mikhail scrolls sideways, pages down, and opens a directory.Jag’s personal notes.
My chest constricts as I scan years’ worth of records, bank accounts, surveillance, and history.Jag meticulously documented patterns, faces, and aliases, tracking Crowe like prey.
“Why?”I rub my neck.“Does he want the billionaire’s money?”
“This is not about money.”Mikhail flips through digital memos, scanning, searching.
“Then what?”
He leans closer to the screen and opens a file namedFirst Meeting with Adrian Crowe - California Tavern.It’s an audio file dated seventeen years ago.
Mikhail hits play.
Static.Old static.Sounds like a cheap recorder or a phone hidden in a pocket.Noise muffles in the background, glasses clinking and someone coughing off-mic.The recording is messy, handheld, and outdated.
A young, raspy male voice comes through.“Why are you following me, Crowe?”
“That’s Jag.”My pulse surges as I find Monty’s eyes.“I’m certain it’s him.”
Seventeen years ago… That would make Jag twenty-three and Dove fifteen.I wonder if this meeting happened before or after the night she ran from him at the drug dealer’s house?
A chair scrapes through the recording.
“I have a business proposal,” Adrian Crowe says, his tone cold and incisive.
“Rot in hell.”Jag makes a disgusted sound.“I know what you did to Celeste Rath.”
Celeste.
Dove’s mother.
My stomach drops.
Is Adrian Crowe connected to her murder?
