Chapter 16
Evie
The water scalds. I let it.
Heat coats my skin, but it doesn’t touch the cold sitting under my ribs or the stiffness still locked in my fingers.
Eyes closed, I see fragments: The Swiss officers’ careful French. Their polite disbelief. The way they looked at Gabe, not me, when they asked who had authority here. The body bag disappearing into the back of an unmarked van.
Autopsy required, they said. As if there’s doubt about what killed her.
As if exposure and abandonment aren’t enough.
I want to stop this.
Her reason for agreeing to testify.
And now my reason for seeing this through to the end.
Maybe she wasn’t murdered. Maybe it was hypothermia.
Maybe she was sick and she didn’t receive proper medical care.
Maybe the disposal of her body was more about protecting a troubled facility than about my case.
But the guilty party, whoever they are, put her here.
No matter how she died, they’re responsible for her death. And they belong behind bars.
I turn off the water and wrap a towel around me. Steam fogs the mirror. I wipe a hand across the glass, but my reflection stays blurred at the edges. Rivulets snake downward, distorting my face.
I look like someone who found a body today.
I should have found her sooner.
The thought settles heavy, like a stone lodged beneath my sternum—too deep to dislodge, with sharp, unforgiving edges.
When I emerge from the bedroom, hair damp and uncombed, Gabe is at the desk. He’s set out tea, bread, cheese, a small plate of fruit—arranged with the same precision he uses for everything in life.
Setting out food is such a domestic gesture that for a second, I don’t know what to do with it. No one takes care of me like this.
“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up from his phone.
“No.”
But I notice the care and appreciate it. The fact that he thought of it. That he didn’t ask first—just did it.
Despite the cold, a hint of warmth surfaces at the edges of that stone.
Outside, the city has gone fully dark, streetlights reflecting in long smears across the wet pavement below, the lake no more than a black expanse broken by the occasional light from a passing boat.
Someone once told me the darkest hour is just before dawn.
I took a thirty-minute shower and nothing feels dawn-adjacent.
Then again, I’ve never trusted phrases meant to reassure.
My phone sits plugged in on the writing desk. “You up for a walk?”
“Your hair’s wet.”
I glance at him. He’s not looking at me, but his mouth is tight—that particular brand of concern that reminds me of all the times he tried to stop me from doing something reckless when we were younger.
Except I’m not a kid left at home with her older brother anymore.
And he’s noticing things he didn’t used to.
“I’ll wear a cap.”
He doesn’t question my need for fresh air, simply dons his boots, coat, scarf, and mittens. I also dress warmly. At the last minute, right before exiting the room, I grab my phone and slip it into my pocket.
I haven’t wanted to check my messages since the train. But I let my NGO contacts know they need to meet me. If they don’t respond, my next step will be to share photos of Lina. Surely when faced with photographs of the victim someone will talk.
Outside the hotel, the air bites at my damp hair despite the cap. The cold feels intentional—like it’s trying to wake me up or punish me. I point right, toward the curve of the lake and the espresso bar I noticed earlier.
The sidewalks are busy without being crowded. Couples. Tourists. Locals moving with purpose. Life continuing at the pace of happy, smiling, normalcy.
I’m aware of Gabe beside me. His stride matches mine without effort. He scans reflections in shop windows, not staring long enough to be obvious.
I didn’t notice it at first.
The sense of being seen comes gradually. A pressure wedged between my shoulder blades. The kind I’ve felt before, in courtrooms and hallways, when someone is observing with specific interest.
I tell myself it’s nothing.
The espresso bar comes into view—warm light spilling onto the pavement, the promise of something bitter and grounding. I slow, fishing my phone from my pocket.
“Order for me?” Gabe asks. “Whatever you’re having.”
His tone is off. Different.
“Evie,” he says, voice lower, gaze elsewhere, “Go inside. Sit where you can see the door.”
“What—”
“Now.”
The word lands simultaneously with a firm hand on my shoulder.
The calm in his voice tells me this isn’t negotiable. And some part of me—the part that’s been running on adrenaline and guilt since the ravine—trusts him.
I go.
Inside, I take a seat near the window, back to the wall. Through the glass, I see Gabe step away from the storefront, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He crosses the street like he’s noticed something in a shop window.
Casual. Unhurried.
Except I know better.
I’ve never seen him like this.
And I hate that part of me isn’t afraid.
I’m reassured.
He stops near a man in a dark coat—late twenties, bundled against the cold. The man startles. Steps back.
If Gabe speaks, he’s not shouting. There’s no noticeable movement of his lips.
He just closes the distance in the blink of an eye, and suddenly the man is against the stone wall, Gabe’s forearm at his throat.
It’s over in a minute.
The man’s phone clatters to the pavement. Gabe bends, retrieves it, scrolls. Pockets it.
Then he steps back.
The man runs.
No one on the street stops. No one even pauses.
Switzerland excels at discretion.
When Gabe crosses back toward the café, his expression is unchanged. Calm as ever. But I see the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes scan every face before settling on mine through the window.
Something low in my stomach tightens. I recognize the feeling and wish I didn’t. It’s attraction. Inconvenient and undeniable.
“Who was that?” I ask the moment he enters, my voice steady despite the adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
“Someone paid to photograph us,” he says. “Not to interfere.”
My stomach drops. “Paid by whom?”
He shakes his head. “He didn’t know. Or didn’t know enough.”
“What did he do?”
“Snapped photos,” Gabe says. “Of us.”
The cafe feels suddenly overheated.
I swallow. “That’s it?”
“That’s all he was told to do. My guess is someone wants to know who you’re with.”
“What was he supposed to do with the photos?” If there’s a name, an email—
“Upload to a burner account. Dead drop for whoever’s paying. Not traceable.”
“Did you get anything?”
“His phone. But he doesn’t know anything. I doubt anything’s on it.”
We don’t linger.
Back in the hotel room, the door barely clicks shut before the adrenaline crashes.
My hands tremble uncontrollably. I press them together, willing them still, but the tremor won’t stop.
Gabe moves past me, checking the locks, the windows, the sight lines—the same routine he does every time we enter a room. Methodical and unflustered.
He’s been doing this the whole trip. Watching exits. Reading crowds. Keeping me safe without ever making me feel small.
And I realize, suddenly and with uncomfortable clarity, that I’ve been so focused on finding Lina I haven’t let myself see him. Not the way he sees me.
Not really.
Not the way I used to.
But that’s not what’s important here. I squeeze my eyes closed and ball my ungloved hands, pulling myself together.
“They’re watching.” That’s the unsettling truth. Whoever did this to Lina has been notified that we found her, and they’re acting.
“Yes,” Gabe says as he exits the bedroom where he closed the drapes.
“Because of Lina.”
“Because you’re here,” he corrects. “Because you won’t stop.”
He means for the words to bear a punch.
I laugh once—short, bitter. “Of course I won’t.”
Gabe doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch me.
But his eyes hold mine, the blue so steady, so serious, that it feels dark, and I feel the weight of everything he’s not saying.
“You should go home,” I say quietly. “Before this gets worse.”
“Not a chance.”
“Gabe—”
“Evie.” He says my name like a correction. “I’m not leaving.”
I feel the distance crack. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a small fracture in the careful distance I’ve kept between us since DC. Since the ravine. Since the moment I realized he wasn’t here because of my brother or my father or a payment.
He’s here because of me.
And it’s personal.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Gabe steps closer. But not so close that he takes away my space.
“You’re safe,” he says. “Don’t let them scare you.”
“What about you?”
“Oh. I’m intrigued.”
I study him. The steadiness. The determination. He hasn’t tried to stop me. He’s only supported me. And god I’m grateful for that.
“I’m not afraid,” I say quietly.
“A little fear is healthy.” There’s a half-smile, a hint of humor.
But that fracture cracks further, because it’s all too heavy.
“I found her too late,” I whisper. “And now they’re interested in you.”
“Curious. Probably wondering what resources you’ve conjured.”
“They may come after you. I don’t want to put you at risk. I can’t… If something happened to you because of me…” I mean every word, deep in my bones, but it’s the glassy eyes and swell of tears that I don’t anticipate.
Without thinking, I’m moving, stepping into him.
His arms come around me immediately, holding me close enough that I can feel the heat of him through layers of winter fabric. Solid breadth. A place to stop.
He holds me like we’ve done this before, like it’s as natural as donning a coat or slipping into sleep.
I breathe him in.
He smells like cedar and coffee, and beneath both, something that just smells like him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble that dislodges the guilt. “We do this together.”
I tilt my chin up.
He doesn’t move.
He waits.
My breath catches halfway in, like even my body isn’t sure this is a good idea.
But I rise on my toes without plans or calculations.
Just—closer.
Close enough that I can see the faint scar at his temple. The one I remember from years ago, when he and my brother came home from a pick-up game bloodied and laughing.
I was twelve. He was untouchable.
He’s still untouchable.
Except he’s not moving away.
His hand comes up—slowly—and brushes a damp strand of hair away from my face. His thumb grazes my cheekbone.
I stop breathing.
“Evie,” he says, and like so often when he says my name, it feels heavy, as if it’s loaded with a message. A warning? A question?
I’m not certain.
He doesn’t look away.
He also doesn’t move.
So I do.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative.
A question more than anything else.
His mouth is warm.
I feel the touch of his lips everywhere—my throat, my chest, the tips of my fingers, the slow, steady unraveling of something I’ve held tight for years.
I press closer, into his hard chest, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair. The other hand finds my waist, warm and steady.
The kiss deepens. His grip tightens just slightly, like he’s holding on.
The kiss is slow, unhurried.
Real.
But also like a dream.
I’m the one who breaks it.
Not because I want to.
Because I need to think. And I can’t think when he’s this close. And I don’t trust where this leads if I don’t think it through.
I step back.
His hand lingers at my waist for half a second longer—then drops.
We stand there, breathing too fast, not looking at each other.
“That was—” I start.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
I don’t finish the sentence.
Neither does he.
The silence stretches.
Not awkward. Not comfortable either.
Just—loaded.
Like something’s shifted and neither of us knows how to shift it back. Or if that’s what we want.
My lips still feel warm. “I should check my messages,” I say finally, because it’s easier than addressing what just happened.
“Okay,” he says.
But he doesn’t move toward his side of the room.
And I don’t ask him to.
“I’ll be right here,” he adds quietly.
I don’t take it as a promise, but as a decision.
My heart beats a thousand strokes a minute.
But I force myself to my phone, to the messages, to the case—because that’s why we’re here. And ironically, the case is safer ground than crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.