Damon’s POV
I stared at the photograph long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, the lights of the city casting reflections across my office windows. Isabella’s blurred image haunted me. That street, the tilt of her head, the unmistakable tension in her shoulders—she wasn’t just alive. She was aware.
She was looking over her shoulder like she expected someone to be there.
Like she was still running.
The sticky note on the back mocked me, its words looping endlessly in my head:
“You were never supposed to find her.”
It wasn’t a warning.
It was a threat.
I picked up the photo again, my thumb brushing the edge. Someone took this recently. Midtown. I could recognize the crosswalk markings, the storefronts in the background. A week old, maybe less.
She was here. She was close.
