And none of it does.
“What time?” I ask.
“Left twenty minutes ago. We flagged it too late.”
I press my free hand against my mouth for a second, hard enough to hurt.
Why the fuck would she go to Chicago?
Last night she was in my bed.
Last night she was warm and soft and looking at me like she wanted to stay there.
She wanted to come with me.
She wanted—
No.
No.
This is wrong.
Ithasto be wrong.
“Romeo’s there,” Santo says. “I already called him. He’ll keep eyes on the airport, bus stations, train if he has to.”
That yanks me back into the room.
“Good.”
I lower my hand and force my voice flat. Controlled. “I’m sending him her picture.”
“Do it now.”
The line stays open while I pull up my phone.
Most of the photos are garbage. Blurred. Half-lit. Taken without thinking.
Then I find one.
Ayla at the bar in Exile. Elbow on the counter. Purple streak catching the low light. Mouth tipped like she’s trying not to smile. Looking like she belongs there more than half the people I’ve ever let through those doors.
My heart pounds. Hard.
Hard enough to piss me off.
I send the photo to Romeo with one line.
Watch for her. Call me the second you see her.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Romero
Understood.
Santo’s still there when I lift the phone back to my ear.
