18. Mia
MIA
Nothing had changed inside the apartment. That was the problem.
The same bare countertop. The same dead radiator under the bay window. The same thin layer of dust on the kitchen table where I used to eat cereal standing up because the chairs were terrible.
I walked through every room. Bedroom, bathroom, closet. Checked the windowsills, the space behind the couch, the gap between the fridge and the wall. Looking for what, exactly? Another note. Evidence of an intruder. Proof that I wasn't losing my mind.
My lower back throbbed as I crouched to check under the bed. The cold and the stress were pressing into the old wound. I had to brace one hand on the mattress to stand.
I checked the mailbox. Electric bill. A flyer for a car wash in Telluride. No handwriting. No folded paper. No two-word message that made my blood turn to ice.
Third time since the note. Third time finding empty air.
I stood in the middle of my old living room and listened. Traffic on Main Street. A dog barking somewhere. The building creaking and groaning around me, settling into its own emptiness.
You're looking for ghosts, Mia.
I locked the door behind me and walked to the Lumia.
Emma was behind the counter in a green dress today. Still wearing red lipstick at nine in the morning. Still smiling wide enough to light up the whole room.
"There she is," Emma said, sliding a mug across the counter before I'd even sat down. Black coffee. Huge. "I've been dying to tell you something."
"You changed the menu?"
"Better." She leaned forward on her elbows. Her eyes were doing that thing where they got wider and brighter and you could see the actual crush forming in real time. "There's a new bloke in town."
I wrapped my hands around the mug. The warmth helped. My fingers had been cold since I'd left the apartment. Cold since the note, if I was honest with myself.
"A snowboarder," Emma said. "Showed up a few days ago. Comes in every morning. Orders an Americano and sits at the window table and reads actual books. Like, paper ones."
"The scandal."
"His name is Oliver. Oliver Marchand." She said the name like it tasted good. "He's from Seattle. Said he came here for the powder and a fresh start after a bad breakup."
"That's a lot of information for a few days."
"I'm thorough." She grinned. "Also, he talks. Like, proper talks. Asks questions, remembers the answers. D'you have any idea how rare that is? Most men in this town grunt at you and call it conversation."
The bell above the entrance chimed.
Emma's whole face changed. Brighter. Pinker. She stood up straighter and tucked her hair behind her ear.
I turned around.
He was tall. That was the first thing. Olive-skinned, with a mess of dark curls and brown eyes that crinkled when he smiled. And he smiled the second he walked in. Big and open and warm, like the room had been waiting for him and he was in on the secret.
Beat-up snowboard hoodie. Faded jeans. Hiking boots with the laces loose. Everything about him said casual. Easygoing. A man with zero to prove and nowhere urgent to be.
My skin prickled.
I couldn't explain it. On paper, he was fine. He looked like half the guys who came through ski towns every season. Good-looking, relaxed, searching for something they couldn't name.
But there was something underneath the easy posture. A sharpness in the way his eyes moved around the room before landing on Emma.
"Morning, Em," he said. He had one of those voices. Low, friendly, just the right amount of gravel. The kind of voice that made you lean in.
"'Allo, Oliver." Emma's cheeks were pink. "The usual?"
"Please." He turned to me. The smile widened. "And this must be Mia. Emma's told me about you."
A handshake. His grip was firm. Warm. Friendly.
The watch on his left wrist was a different story.
It caught the light as his sleeve pulled back. A Patek Philippe. I'd spent enough years in New York sitting across from men who wore those watches. I recognized what that cost. More than the Lumia. More than most houses on Main Street.
That watch did not belong under a snowboard hoodie.
"Nice to meet you," I said. My voice sounded fine. Steady. Polite.
You're being paranoid, Mia. He's a snowboarder with a trust fund. They exist.
"Emma says you work outside town," Oliver said, settling onto the stool beside me. He moved like someone who was comfortable taking up space. "For an artist?"
"I transcribe journals," I said. "It's not exciting."
"Sounds fascinating, actually. What kind of journals?"
"Old ones. Family history stuff."
He nodded. Interested. Or performing interest. I couldn't tell yet.
"Have you always lived in Colorado?" he asked. "Wait, no. California? Sorry, I'm terrible with geography."
My mug froze halfway to my mouth.
California.
Nobody in Rockford said California first. This was Colorado. People assumed Colorado. That was the whole point of the cover story. You only said California if you were placing someone. If you'd already formed an opinion about where they were from and caught yourself.
"Colorado," I said. I took a sip of coffee. "Moved here a while back."
The lie landed smooth. They always did. That was the worst part.
"Right, right." He waved his hand, dismissing it. "I mix up states all the time. Seattle guy, you know? Everything below Oregon is just 'south' to me."
He laughed. Easy. Disarming. Emma laughed too.
I didn't.
"That blue sweater from the other day looked great on you, by the way," he said. "The one with the loose collar?"
I hadn't worn a blue sweater to the Lumia in days. Not since before the ice cream trip.
He remembered what I was wearing days ago. With specific detail. What kind of person catalogs a stranger's wardrobe?
A journalist. A cop. A man who's watching.
"Thanks," I said. My voice was still steady. The journalist in me was wide awake now, cataloging his body language the way he was cataloging mine. The tilt of his head. The way he glanced at Emma but kept circling back to me.
"Emma mentioned the artist is kind of a recluse," he said. Not pushy. Just curious. Like he was making conversation. "That's interesting. Must be an unusual working arrangement."
He hadn't used Tony's name. He'd asked about Tony through Emma's mention, gathering information sideways, the way you do when you don't want the target to know you're interested.
I recognized this technique. I'd used it a thousand times across interview desks.
"It works for us," I said.
Emma jumped in with a story about delivering a birthday cake to Tony. He didn't answer for forty-five minutes. Oliver laughed. I watched him.
He asked about Rockford. About the ski season. About the farmer's market. Safe questions, delivered with the right amount of charm. He touched Emma's hand when she refilled his coffee. She lit up.
He was interested in Emma. That much was real.
But the attention he paid to everything else was too sharp for a man who claimed to be bad at geography.
I wound my hair up into a bun. Twisted it tight and secured it with the elastic from my wrist. A stress response that had become so automatic I barely noticed it anymore.
"I should get going," I said. "Groceries."
"Come back tomorrow," Emma said. "Oliver's teaching me about single-origin beans. It's very serious."
"It's extremely serious," Oliver said. That smile again. Wide and warm and aimed at Emma but glancing off me in the process.
I left.
The spring air hit me outside the Lumia. Cool and sharp, carrying the smell of pine and distant snow. Main Street was quiet for a weekday. A couple walked their dog past the bookshop. A truck rumbled through the intersection.
Ordinary town. Ordinary morning.
Except nothing about my life was ordinary. And I was getting worse at pretending it was.
The burner phone buzzed in my jacket pocket before I made it to the car.
I ducked into the alley beside the hardware store. The air was cold. My breath made clouds against the brick wall.
"Hey, sweetheart," Lucas said.
"What's wrong?"
"Calm down. I have an update." A pause. The kind Lucas used when he was choosing his words the way a surgeon chooses incisions. "We've identified a suspect connected to Brooks's network. Someone who may have helped him track your relocation."
The alley got smaller. The brick walls pressed in.
"Who?"
"I can't say yet. We're still watching. I don't want to give you a name until we're sure."
"Lucas."
"I know. I know this is hard. But I need you to trust the process. We're close."
Close. The word sat in my chest like a stone. Close to what? Close to knowing who slid a folded piece of paper under my door? Close to knowing how they found me?
"Is it someone in Rockford?" I asked.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I can't confirm that."
Which meant he wouldn't deny it either.
"Are you safe?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are you telling me the truth?"
"I'm telling you what you want to hear."
He exhaled. "Your someone arrives within the week. You'll know him when you see him."
Dale. The bodyguard Lucas had promised. Another stranger in my life. Another layer of protection I hadn't asked for and couldn't refuse.
"Okay."
"Mia. If anything changes, you call me. Day or night. Don't wait."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"Lucas." His name came out softer than I intended. "I hear you."
He hung up. I stood in the alley for a long time. The cold bit through my jacket and I let it.
A suspect connected to Brooks's network.
Oliver's face swam up in my head. That warm smile. The California slip. The watch that cost more than a year of my rent.
Stop it. You don't know anything. You're seeing threats in every shadow because one shadow turned out to be real.
But the journalist in me didn't stop. She never did.
I drove back to the property as the sun dropped behind the mountains. The road curved through pine trees. The light went amber and gold, and for a few seconds I forgot to be afraid.
Then I pulled up to the cottage and the fear came back like a tide.
The cottage was dark. Exactly how I'd left it. Curtains drawn, door locked. I checked the perimeter out of habit now. A quick scan of the windows, the tree line, the path leading up to the main house.
The Castle was lit up against the ridge. Glass and timber and all those windows, glowing warm in the dusk. Tony's studio light was on. I could see his silhouette through the glass. Tall. Still. A brush in his hand.
Avery's bedroom window was dark. Already asleep.
I sat in my car with the engine off and the keys in my lap.
Oliver's smile. The note in my apartment. The suspect Lucas wouldn't name. Tony inside that glass house, painting in a world he believed was safe.
I should walk up to that house. Knock on the studio door. Tell him everything.
My name isn't Mia.
A man murdered the person I loved. Put a bullet in my spine.
The FBI gave me a new face and sent me here.
They found me. And being close to me puts you and your daughter in danger.
All of it. Every word.
The car stayed where it was. So did I. Until the studio light went off.
Then I walked to the cottage. Locked the door. Checked the windows.
And hated myself a little more.