Chapter 12 Luka
LUKA
Misha pauses the footage, and the image freezes on Jenny's familiar silhouette.
The exterior camera above the Colorado cabin shows a quiet stretch of pine, the small parking area, and the steps leading to the front door.
I watch as Jenny walks into frame, her dark hair pulled up, purse across her body.
She climbs the steps empty-handed and knocks once before the door opens for her.
There is no sound, but the two women talk for approximately a minute.
Jenny listens, nods, then glances back at her car like she is checking the time.
She accepts a padded envelope from Sage, tucks it under her arm, and walks away from the cabin without hesitation, completely relaxed as if she is doing nothing more than running an errand for a friend.
“Pause,” I instruct.
Misha stills the screen. Jenny crosses the snow-dusted ground toward her car, the envelope tucked against her ribs.
No hesitation or tension. No suspicion whatsoever.
Her shoulders remain loose, her gait even.
Nothing in her body language suggests she knows what she carries might be important.
She moves like someone picking up dry cleaning, not someone involved in anything worth hiding.
“Play it again,” I tell him.
He rewinds a few sections and presses the button. I study every movement with fresh eyes. Jenny arrives with no envelope. She leaves with one. The exchange happens too quickly for anything complicated to pass between them. Sage hands it over. Jenny takes it. Done.
The muscles in my neck tighten as I lean closer to the screen. The timestamp in the corner reads three days ago, mid-morning. I was handling the dock situation. Sage was supposed to be resting.
“This girl wasn't staying with you?” Nikolay’s arms cross over his chest, his expression giving nothing away. “She just showed up for a few minutes?”
“Yes,” I respond, my shoulders tightening as a pulse of irritation moves through me. “Which means Sage contacted her.”
Misha clears his throat and taps a key. His fingers move across the keyboard smoothly. “There is more.”
The screen changes, switching to an indoor view of the small post office two miles from the cabin. The clerk's identity is irrelevant. What matters is the girl at the counter.
Jenny stands in line scrolling her phone, swaying a little with bored patience.
Her weight shifts from one foot to the other while she waits.
She reaches the counter and sets the padded envelope down.
She smiles at the clerk, her expression open and friendly, completely at ease.
She signs something, accepts a receipt, then pushes the package across with one finger.
She tucks the receipt into her purse and walks out the same way she came in.
Nothing about her movements suggests fear or urgency.
Just a girl mailing something simple for Sage.
But the sight churns low in my gut. A package left the cabin the same week my system flagged unauthorized downloads.
Jenny wouldn’t know the first thing about pulling files from my computer, which means the envelope didn’t start with her. She is innocent in this.
“Timestamp?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes after the cabin footage,” Misha replies. His eyes remain fixed on the screen.
My stomach goes tight. A hollow pulse beats behind my ribs, echoing in the silence of the room. Sage doesn't do anything without reason, and the timing feels too intentional, too precise.
I push away from the desk and begin pacing.
The floor beneath my feet is hardwood, polished to a shine that reflects the gray Seattle light filtering through the windows.
Each step lands with a muted thud that reverberates through the otherwise quiet room.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, then release.
Curl. Release. The rhythm helps me think.
“Where is the package now?” I ask, heat rising in my chest.
Misha checks his file, scrolling through data on the tablet in his hand. “We tracked the outgoing scan. It went from Aspen Ridge to Denver, then transferred to a regional sorting facility headed for Washington.”
My head snaps toward him. “Washington?”
“It was sent to a private mailbox service,” he continues, his tone even. “We're pulling logs now.”
The words settle over me like ice water. Washington. Not some random destination across the country. Here, in my city. I close the laptop with such force that Misha blinks. The screen goes dark, reflecting my face back at me for a moment before I turn away.
“Keep working,” I instruct.
Then I walk out because the walls are creeping in too close for me to think. My shoulders feel like they're being crushed inward, the pressure building until I need space to breathe.
The stairs blur beneath my steps. My shoes hit each step hard, the sound echoing through the corridor. Every hallway feels too narrow. Every window feels like it lets in too much cold, the chill seeping through the glass and settling into the walls.
My mind runs through possibilities, each one darker than the last. Sage sent something to Washington without telling me. The secrecy alone tells me she's hiding more than just a package. When I reach Sage’s door, I twist the handle and step inside.
Vega lifts his head where he lies near the bed.
His ears perk forward, his tail shifting across the floor in a slow sweep.
He watches me approach, his dark eyes tracking my movements.
He rises but doesn't leave. He plants himself beside the bed, his body angled toward Sage as if he's standing guard.
Sage looks up from the bed, her knees drawn toward her chest. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, loose strands falling around her face.
Her tea sits untouched on the nightstand, steam long since dissipated.
The moment she sees my expression, her shoulders lift with tension.
Her body goes rigid, her spine straightening as if bracing for impact.
“Luka,” she breathes, her blue eyes wide as they search my face. “What happened?”
I close the door behind me. The click sounds louder than it should, echoing in the quiet room.
I take a moment to gather the words that need to come out without sounding like accusations.
But the truth is, I am accusing her. Not directly, though.
Not yet. But the question sitting on my tongue refuses to stay quiet.
“What did you send, Sage?”
Her breath stutters. She straightens, her fingers curling in the blanket draped over her lap. The fabric bunches in her grip. “I… I don't understand.”
My voice comes out low, each word intentional. “Do not pretend this is nothing. Jenny went to the cabin. She left with a padded envelope you gave her. She mailed it twenty minutes later.” I take a step closer. “What did you send?”
Her chest moves too fast, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her eyes dart toward the nightstand, toward her phone lying face down. The movement is quick, almost imperceptible, but I see it. I always see it.
I drag in a breath, trying not to let my anger spill over into something she will misinterpret.
Anger won't get me the truth. Pressure will.
But there's a difference between applying pressure and crushing someone beneath it.
I've learned that difference over the years, though sometimes I forget which side of the line I'm standing on.
“Sage,” I urge, my tone softening by a fraction. “Look at me.”
She lifts her eyes. Fear and guilt swirl in them, mixing together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Her lips part as if she wants to speak, but no words come out. She swallows hard, her throat working visibly.
“Tell me,” I push, keeping my voice low. “I need the truth.”
She folds one hand over her stomach, not even aware she's doing it. The gesture is protective and instinctive. Her voice trembles when she finally speaks. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Then tell me now.”
She inhales shakily, both hands gripping the blanket like she needs something to anchor her.
Her fingers twist in the fabric, pulling it tighter across her lap.
“Ray started messaging me weeks ago,” she confesses, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“Fake numbers. Disappearing threads. He sent a box with a lock of Hope's hair. The ribbon had blood on it.”
Something inside me goes rigid. My entire body locks, my muscles tensing from my shoulders down to my legs. The air in the room feels thinner and harder to pull into my lungs. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms.
“You didn't tell me about this,” I mutter, my voice rougher now. The words scrape against my throat on the way out.
“I was terrified,” she whispers, her eyes glistening. “He threatened her unless I did what he wanted.”
My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. I force myself to breathe evenly, to keep my voice from rising. “What else?”
“He demanded files,” she goes on, her voice barely holding together. Each word sounds like it's being dragged out of her against her will. “He told me to get it for him or he'd kill her. He told me that if I mentioned it to you, even once, she would bleed for it.”
My pulse moves like a hammer behind my ribs, each beat echoing in my ears.
The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in.
I want to put my fist through something to channel the rage building inside me into action.
But Sage is sitting in front of me, trembling, and I can't afford to lose control. Not when she needs me to stay grounded.
“And you chose to send him something,” I point out, the words rough and uneven.
“Yes,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet I almost don't hear it. “But not what he wanted.”