"I think I have the right one."
"Really?" Hope threaded through her voice, bright and fragile. "You're sure?"
"Pretty sure. The details match. Corporate consultant, right age, right location, right physical description."
"Oh, my God." Her breath caught. "You actually found him."
"I did."
A pause.
Then: "Can you send me his information?"
"I can do better than that." I hesitated, then committed, knowing I was crossing a line I'd told myself I wouldn't cross. "I can give you the address. Or I can come with you. Now. Your choice."
A long pause.
Longer than before.
I waited, heart beating slightly faster than it should, wondering what she was thinking. Whether she wanted me there or if she'd prefer to handle this final, fragile piece alone. Whether seeing me again was something she actually wanted or just something she'd said in the heat of the moment.
"I want you to come," she said finally, quietly, voice carrying something I couldn't quite name. "Just in case. I don't … I don't know what I'm walking into."
Relief hit harder than it should have, flooding through me with an intensity that made no sense.
She wanted me there.
"Give me the address."
She did. Her sister's apartment in the Marais, a street name I recognized from my mental map of the city.
"Thirty minutes?"
"Yeah. Thirty minutes."
I ended the call and stood there for a second, staring at the file in my hand, heart still beating too fast.
Fuck. What are you getting into?
Helping her find answers was one thing. Noble, even. The right thing to do.
Spending more time with her was another.
Being alone with her in her dead sister's apartment, surrounded by grief and secrets and all the raw vulnerability that came with loss?
That was asking for trouble.
That was begging for me to do something I'd regret.
Or something I wouldn't regret, which was worse.
But I was out the door in five minutes, anyway, file in a small backpack I’d gotten from Ellsworth, moving with purpose.
I wanted to get there early. Scope the area. Check for problems. Make sure the route was clear and the neighborhood was safe and there were no surprises waiting.
Habit.
Old instincts carved into muscle memory that never quite went away no matter how long you spent pretending to be civilized.
