Chapter 2
TWO
TRISTAN
Present
The coordinates don't match.
I stare at the screen, comparing the numbers Zara pulled from the Geneva lockbox against the satellite overlay Nick sent an hour ago.
They should match, but they fucking don't. Not even a little bit.
"Talk to me," I say, not looking up when my best friend Aaron walks through my office door.
"Pier 38C manifests came back redacted." He drops a folder on my desk. "Twelve months of ghost trucks. No logs, no drivers. Nothing."
I flip it open. Half the pages are blacked out like someone took a Sharpie to evidence they didn't want found. "Who authorized the redaction?"
"Couldn't find anything. We tried."
I close the folder. "That's not good enough."
"I know. But whoever's running interference has real reach. I haven't seen anything like it before."
Six months since Keira vanished, and every lead I've chased has hit the same dead end. Someone powerful is actively erasing her trail. Scrubbing security footage. Burning manifests. Silencing anyone who might've seen her.
People don't disappear this cleanly by accident.
Someone's shielding her.
The question I can't answer is why.
I lean back, studying the grainy surveillance photo taped above my monitors.
A shadow that might be Keira moving through a hallway where the lights refuse to cooperate.
I printed it too dark, too big. Some days I think I punish myself on purpose for letting her slip through my fingers in the first place.
But then I remember she set me up. She didn't want me.
Whatever arrangement she made, whatever deal she cut—she walked into it willingly. People like Keira don't get forced. She would never do something that wouldn't benefit her in some way. She's the type to trade one cage for another if the terms are good enough.
She was, anyway, when I knew her.
That was in the past, and it should stay there.
That's what I keep telling myself. But then I remember the lockbox.
It was delivered to my office, which means she knew exactly who she was sending it to. Inside was a useless dossier that led to a dead person, coordinates to literally nowhere, a DNA report.
And one single photo.
Keira in a sunlit apartment, hair twisted up, the soft edges of someone who didn't work for criminals. She's holding a baby boy in the crook of her arm, and he looks exactly like me. There's even a curl at his temple that refuses to obey.
Just like the one I have in the exact same spot.
I used to flatten it with spit before school because my grandfather said I looked undisciplined.
She hid him from me. For years. And now she's gone, leaving me nothing but breadcrumbs and an ever-growing rage.
"Tristan."
I blink, forgetting for a minute that Aaron's still standing there.
"What?"
"I asked if you want me to keep digging."
"No." I close my laptop. "I'll handle it."
He crosses his arms tightly across his chest, clearly displeased. "I don't think that's smart."
"I don't care what you think. And since when do you question me?"
"Since you stopped sleeping and started burning cigarettes into your furniture like some kind of deranged lunatic. You don't even smoke."
I glance at the table. He's right. Perfect circles are scorched into the wood where I held them until they died.
"New table arrives Friday," I reply flatly, shrugging.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
He exhales loudly. "The point is you're being a bigger dick than usual, and you're obsessing too hard—which means it won't be long before people start ending up in pieces."
So I take care of problems. There's nothing wrong with that.
"Good, that's the exact mood I'm going for. Glad it's working for me."
"Tristan—"
"Thanks for the concern, bud. Now do get out. Say hi to the wife."
"Fine." He heads for the door but then pauses, glancing back at me. "For what it's worth? Whoever took her knew what they were doing. But you're smarter than them. Try to outsmart yourself, and maybe you'll get somewhere."
How profound.
The door clicks shut.
I sit in the silence, letting it all press against my ribs while I try to figure out where to go from here. The city hums outside—sirens, traffic, the metal screech of a bus braking too hard three blocks away.
It's all just background noise at this point. Everything in my life is these days.
Why am I still looking for her? Why can't I just let it go?
My phone vibrates on my desk.
Nick
Got a name. He's a Doyle accountant. Seems like a quiet guy who handles the offshore stuff. Want the address?
I type back immediately.
Me
Send it.
Three dots appear and disappear four times.
Nick
I can go if you want. Last time you went after Doyle intel solo, you came back with a broken hand.
Me
No.
Nick
Please don't do anything stupid.
I’m a little offended he would even say that.
The address arrives thirty seconds later. I memorize it, delete the text, then pull up my contact list and scroll to a name I haven't used in years.
Elliot.
Ex-CIA who works as a freelancer now. Elliot can pull files that don't officially exist and make people talk when they'd rather die. He owes me three favors. I've been saving them.
The phone rings twice before he picks up. "Tristan. To what do I owe the—"
"I need everything on a Doyle operation running out of Pier 38C. Manifests, personnel, money trails. I don't care how deep you have to dig."
A beat of silence before he speaks. "Hello to you too."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I don't really have time for this."
"I don't think you want to go digging around Pier 38."
"Why don't you let me worry about that?"
"Doyle's not someone you poke without consequences. They'll know the second you step close enough to their territory."
"I'm aware."
I can almost hear him weighing loyalty against self-preservation. "Give me forty-eight hours."
"You have twenty-four."
"That's im—"
"Twenty-four, Elliot. Don't test me."
He mutters something that sounds like a curse. "Fine. But if this blows back on me—"
"It won't."
I hang up before he can argue back, and frankly I'm tired of hearing his whining. My eyes fall to the photo on the wall again.
Keira, caught mid-laugh.
The boy in her arms with my eyes, my blood, and my fault for not being there.
A life frozen in a moment I was never allowed into.
You didn't know.
Yeah…and I blame Keira for that.
The anger inside me has grown teeth and learned how to breathe on its own.
All this emotion and nowhere to put it. No number to call. No door to kick in. I don't even get the satisfaction of yelling at her—of asking how she justified keeping my son from me, how she sleeps at night knowing what she stole.
Who the fuck does she think she is?
My knuckles split when I curl my hand into a fist. Blood beads bright and obscene across the scars already there. It's a reminder that I'm still kicking, and as long as I'm here, I'll be looking for them.
Hunting her down.
I grab my coat and keys.
Not forgetting the gun locked in my desk drawer.
I'm not going after Keira because I miss her.
I'm going because I hate loose ends. And whatever life she chose, whoever she's turned into, I need to see it for myself.
I need to find my son and have the choice to bring him home.
Even if I have to burn every bridge down to get to them.