Chapter 14
Evie
In the morning, I wake with a start. Sunlight glimmers through the bottom of the bedroom door, and panic that I’ve horribly overslept has me throwing the covers back and flinging the door open.
I squint into the bright light. Yes, it’s a gray, January sky, but the contrast between the darkened bedroom and the bright living area is startling. The sofa bed is made, and a silver pot of coffee with dainty coffee cups awaits on the round dining table, along with three folded newspapers.
What time is it?
I spot my phone, plugged in on the desk, and flip it over. Ten a.m. That’s not too bad. Given the time difference, it could be much worse.
I try to recall last night. We had drinks at the bar.
And when we came up, it was still evening, earlier than I’d normally sleep, so I changed back into my comfy silk pajamas and laid back on the pillows, above the comforter, to close my eyes.
Told him I’d take a nap and when I woke, we’d watch a movie or something to force myself to adjust to the time change.
I must’ve slept through them doing turndown service. I don’t recall a single dream. And I woke beneath the covers, which means Gabe must’ve put me there.
But where is he now?
I look down on the desk and read a handwritten note.
I’ve gone to the hotel gym. Ordered coffee and juice. Back soon.
There’s no time noted, but when he returns, he’ll need a shower. Within twenty minutes, I’m done with mine and dressed.
When I exit the steamy bathroom, I stop short.
Gabe stands at the French doors, phone pressed to his ear, backlit by the gray winter light off Lake Geneva.
He’s in workout clothes—a fitted gray T-shirt dark with sweat at the spine and under his arms, and shorts that hit just above the knee.
His hair, normally ruler-straight, curls at the nape and temples where perspiration has dampened it.
He shifts his weight, and I track the movement despite myself.
The way the T-shirt pulls across his shoulders.
The definition in his arms as he lifts one hand to scrub across the back of his neck.
He’s always been lean, but he’s more defined than before.
Sculpted. This is a different kind of alone than what we had growing up—no brother nearby, no parent down the hall.
Just the two of us, and I rarely had the ability, or the excuse, to really look.
The muscles in his legs are distinct even in the dim light, his calves flexing as he rocks forward on the balls of his feet. When he half-turns, I catch the line of his profile, the hard angle of his jaw. There’s a coiled energy to him even standing still, almost predatory, definitely alert.
My pulse kicks into a higher gear—a fact I’d prefer to blame on the overly hot shower. Yesterday afternoon it felt like he might kiss me. He didn’t. I’ve got no business reading into it.
He turns fully, catching me mid-stare.
Heat blooms everywhere but especially on my cheeks as I force something resembling a neutral expression and casually stride to the coffee service.
“I’ll tell her,” he says into the phone, his voice that low rumble I’ve been trying not to notice, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “I’ll keep you updated. Copy that. All communications through the secure app.”
He disconnects and gestures toward the bathroom. “You done in there?”
“It’s yours.” I concentrate very hard on pouring coffee.
“Won’t take me long.”
He moves past me, and I catch the scent of him—salt and exertion and something fundamentally male. The suite suddenly feels tiny.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door close before I release the breath I’ve been holding.
“Tell me what?” I call after him, proud that my voice sounds normal.
“We have a few addresses to check out today,” he calls back through the door.
“What are we looking for?” I’m hoping to find Lina today, but that’s going to require meeting my contacts in person to gain their trust.
“Checking to see if they’re legit. If they exist.”
Ah. Right. Shell companies are notorious for address ruses.
Geneva looks harmless in the daylight.
That’s the first thing I notice as we step out onto the street—how clean everything is. Trams slide past on schedule. Shoes click against wet pavement. No one rushes. No one lingers.
The air is cold enough that my breath mists. Gabe walks beside me, hands in his pockets, scanning the street with that quiet vigilance that’s very much Gabe.
He’s on edge, but Geneva strikes me as the kind of place where wrongdoing doesn’t overtly announce itself. It wears a suit. Files paperwork. Disappears politely.
The contrast with the slums where FBI raids yield witnesses and informants couldn’t be starker.
“That’s the trick,” I say as we walk. “Here, legitimacy is assumed.”
Gabe glances at me but doesn’t comment. He’s always been like that. A listener. He lets me run the logic. It matters more than he probably realizes.
The first address on my list is in Plainpalais, a narrow building wedged between a tailor and a tax consultancy. Clean windows. A brass directory of tenants. Exactly what I expected—and for whatever reason, that bothers me.
I scan the directory, my finger tracing the etched names. “Here,” I say. “Third floor.”
Inside, the lobby smells faintly of citrus cleaner and maybe a recently used photocopier.
We locate the elevator, enter, and silently rise to the third floor. The elevator opens onto a silent corridor—gray carpet, harsh lighting, no art. No indication of people actually working here.
Suite 3B isn’t an office.
It’s a mailbox wall. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. There’s no warmth here, no personality. Just metal slots and corporate anonymity, exactly as designed.
Dozens of identical metal slots, each labeled with a different entity. Some abbreviated. Some meaningless strings of letters. I count automatically—thirty-two.
My jaw tightens and nausea surfaces.
“This address appears on the transfer authorization,” I say. “They represented themselves as a funding partner.”
A woman sits behind a small desk at the far end of the room, scrolling her phone. She exhibits zero curiosity or interest in us.
I approach her, voice steady. “Excuse me. We’re looking for the Geneva Initiative Foundation.”
She blinks once. “I don’t believe that’s a tenant.”
“They’re registered here,” I say, gesturing to the mailbox.
She scans a typed list on her desk, presumably verifying I’m correct. “We receive mail only,” she says. “No offices. No staff. Forwarding service.”
“How long have they been listed?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Months, maybe longer. I log packages that require signatures.”
“Do you have a forwarding address? Somewhere the mail actually goes?”
“Forwarding instructions come with each account. I don’t have access to that—it’s handled through our parent company’s system.
You’d need a subpoena for that information, and even then, I’m not sure what you’d get.
These accounts change forwarding details often.
Standard for privacy-conscious clients.”
In other words, she has no valuable information she's willing—or able—to give us.
We thank her and leave without pressing. Outside, I draw in a slow breath, trying to quiet the irritation crawling up my spine.
“Shady,” Gabe says, photographing the directory with his phone. “But they’re not even trying to hide it with that many entities at one address.”
I nod. “It’s not unusual for offshore structures. But it’s also not reassuring.”
“The woman inside didn’t ask why we were looking,” he adds. “Didn’t even pretend to care. Likely trained indifference.”
It’s a leap to think anyone instructed her to behave with indifference, but his theory has merit. In my experience, legitimate businesses show at least mild curiosity.
The second address is closer to the financial district. Glass and steel. Actual offices this time, not just a mailbox. The kind of place you lease when you want to look permanent without being memorable.
We buzz the intercom.
The property manager who greets us is polite. Swiss-German accent. Late fifties. Hands clasped behind his back as he lets us in.
The office suite is empty.
No furniture. No computers. Just faint impressions in the carpet where desks once stood. Once again I sniff the hint of cleaning solution, as if someone scrubbed away any trace of occupation—but maybe our timing is coinciding with the building cleaning service.
“They were here briefly,” the property manager says. “Foreign consultants.”
“How long?” I ask.
“A month. Paid in advance. Good tenants.”
“When did they leave?”
He presses his lips together, angling his head slightly, thinking. “Recently.”
Again, not reassuring.
“Did they provide a forwarding address?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Left with several weeks still on the lease.”
This isn’t the place they’d bring Lina, but I still show him a photo of her on my phone. His brow crinkles.
“She’s not familiar, but dressed like a professional, it’s possible I might not recognize her.”
Lina wouldn’t have been here in a suit. And this man doesn’t recognize I’m searching for a woman who would either be protected or possibly held against her will.
“Do you have security footage?” I ask.
“Not anymore,” he says. “Forty-eight-hour retention. It’s been longer than that.” Of course it has. The timing is too convenient.
Gabe moves to the window, scanning the grounds. “No security cameras in the hallway,” he says. “And this office faces an alley. Easy in, easy out.”
The property manager doesn’t react to this observation, which tells me he’s used to tenants who value discretion. Perhaps he’s also used to people following up after his tenants move out.
We don’t speak again until we’re outside on the sidewalk. Cars move past us with indifference. The entire city hums on, perfectly unbothered.
I stop walking, frustration crystallizing into certainty. “These people definitely aren’t protecting her. This is about making her impossible to find.”