The screen populated.
Fifty-one hits across France.
Without asking, Ellsworth typed and clicked, filters narrowing the list with the kind of efficiency that spoke to years of practice. Geographic parameters. Age ranges. Cross-referencing multiple databases I didn't recognize. Government. Corporate. Medical. Financial.
Twelve results.
"Do you know the man's age? Approximately?"
I thought about Ella's description. Younger than forty, maybe? But I wanted to cast a wider net just to be safe.
"Between thirty and fifty. To be safe."
His fingers flew. Six results.
"General location within Paris?"
I thought harder. The only connection I had was the clinic where I'd gotten stitched up this morning. Where Ella's sister had died. Where I'd met Ella and my life had tilted sideways without asking permission.
"Near the clinic where I got stitched up this morning." I told him the general location.
Ellsworth nodded, typing coordinates with precision.
Two results.
He looked up, expression neutral but knowing in a way that made me wonder exactly how much the man saw. "Would you like a complete dossier on each?"
"Yes."
Two minutes later, the printer hummed to life in the corner, spitting out pages with professional efficiency. Ellsworth gathered them, tapped them into alignment, and handed me two files—thick, thorough, the kind of intelligence reports that would've taken most people days to compile through official channels.
I had them in under five minutes.
Background. Employment history. Known associates. Financial records. Photos from CCTV. Everything.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
Ellsworth inclined his head, something that might have been approval in his eyes. "Anytime, Mr. Black."
I headed back upstairs, already dialing before I'd reached my room.
Ella picked up immediately, like she'd been holding her phone.
"That was fast," she said, surprise and hope mixing in her voice.
"I got a couple hits. Do you know anything else about him that might help narrow it down? Approximate age? Profession? Physical description? Anything?"
"I think he's younger than forty. Light brown hair. Short, professional cut. And …” She paused, thinking. "Corporate something. Maybe consulting or risk management. My sister worked in corporate training, so they might have overlapped professionally."
I flipped through the files quickly, scanning details.
Only one fit the description perfectly.
Étienne Moreau, thirty-six, corporate risk management consultant specializing in crisis response and business continuity planning. Offices in the 6th arrondissement near Luxembourg Gardens. Light brown hair in the professional headshot attached to his company bio. Clean-cut. Handsome in an unremarkable way. The kind of man who blended into board rooms and business dinners.
The kind of man a woman like Rose might have met through work.
And fallen for.
