Kiss Me Tomorrow

Chapter 9

Adrian's POV

I read the message twice.

Then a third time.

If you want to know where he went, stop trusting Adrian Vale.

I hated how quickly my mind began working.

The wording.

The timing.

The photograph.

Someone wanted Lena to doubt me.

That part was obvious.

What wasn't obvious was whether they were lying.

I looked at the photograph again.

Thomas Hart stood outside a train station.

Older than he had been in the photograph we'd found the night before, but unmistakably him.

Beside him stood Elliot Mason.

Three months after Thomas was supposedly gone.

"Give me the phone," the officer said.

I handed it back.

"We need to take this as evidence."

"Of course."

Lena hadn't moved.

She was staring at the photograph.

Her face had gone pale.

I knew what she was thinking.

If the photograph was real, everything she'd believed about her father had just changed.

And if it wasn't real, someone had gone to considerable effort to make her believe it.

"Lena."

She didn't answer.

"Lena."

She finally looked at me.

"Was my father alive?"

I took a breath.

"I don't know."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth."

"You said he disappeared."

"That's what we believed."

"No."

Her voice shook.

"You believed it."

I didn't answer.

She looked at the phone again.

"What train station is that?"

"We'll find out."

"How?"

"The photograph has metadata if it hasn't been stripped."

The officer stepped closer.

"We'll have our technical team check it."

"Thank you."

Lena turned toward the car.

"I need air."

I followed her.

She stopped beside the sidewalk.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she whispered, "Eleven years."

I stood beside her.

"Yes."

"I spent eleven years thinking he left me."

"I know."

"Thinking he was guilty."

"I know."

"Thinking he didn't care enough to come back."

Her voice broke on the last sentence.

I wanted to say something.

Anything.

But there were some kinds of pain that words couldn't touch.

She wiped quickly beneath one eye.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I hate that every time I think I understand what happened, something else appears."

"I know."

She looked at me.

"And I hate that you're always standing in the middle of it."

That one hurt.

I nodded.

"I understand."

She looked away.

I wanted to reach for her.

I didn't.

She needed space, not another person deciding what she needed.

After a moment, she said, "Take me home."

"Okay."

We walked back to the car.

Neither of us spoke during the drive.

---

Lena's POV

I watched New York pass through the window.

Buildings.

Traffic.

People.

Everything looked exactly the same.

But my entire life felt different.

My father had been alive three months after the night I was told he disappeared.

That meant one of two things.

Someone had lied.

Or someone had created an elaborate lie around a photograph.

Neither option made me feel better.

Adrian drove quietly.

I could feel the tension between us.

Not anger.

Not exactly.

Something heavier.

I had spent the entire morning telling myself I wanted the truth.

Now that I had found another piece of it, I wasn't sure I could handle what came next.

"Pull over."

Adrian glanced at me.

"Why?"

"I need coffee."

He almost smiled.

"Coffee?"

"Yes."

"After everything that just happened?"

"Especially after everything that just happened."

He shook his head.

"There's a place ahead."

We stopped at a small café.

It wasn't fancy.

No private rooms.

No expensive furniture.

Just a few tables, soft music, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

We sat in the corner.

For a few minutes, neither of us touched our drinks.

Then I looked at him.

"Tell me something."

"Okay."

"Did you ever think my father was innocent?"

"Yes."

"Before you met me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He leaned back.

"Because the evidence against him was too clean."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"Everything pointed toward him."

"That's good evidence."

"Too good."

I waited.

"When someone commits a crime and leaves evidence behind, investigators usually find inconsistencies. Mistakes. Something unexpected."

"But?"

"There were almost none."

I stared at him.

"So you thought someone planted it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because your father wasn't careless."

I looked down.

That was the first time someone had spoken about my father like he was a person rather than a scandal.

"He was a good man."

"I believe that."

I looked up.

"You never met him."

"No."

"Then how can you believe it?"

"Because I've spent eleven years looking at what happened to him."

His voice was quiet.

"And the more I looked, the less his guilt made sense."

Something tightened in my chest.

"Why did you investigate?"

He looked at his coffee.

"My father told me to."

I frowned.

"What?"

"Before he died, he told me there was something wrong with the case."

"What did he say?"

"That Thomas Hart had been framed."

I stared at him.

"Why didn't he say that publicly?"

"Because he was afraid."

"Of who?"

Adrian looked at me.

"I don't know."

I looked away.

The silence stretched.

Then I asked the question I'd been avoiding.

"Did your father know where mine went?"

"I think he knew something."

"Did he tell you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He died before he could."

I swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

He nodded.

"Thank you."

For the first time, I understood something about Adrian.

His obsession with control wasn't simply arrogance.

He had spent years living with unanswered questions too.

Maybe that's why he understood mine.

I took a sip of coffee.

It was too hot.

I put it down.

"Do you trust me?"

He looked at me.

"Yes."

"Even after that message?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because whoever sent it wants you to stop trusting me."

"And that makes you trust me?"

"No."

He paused.

"I trust you because you haven't given me a reason not to."

I looked at him.

Simple.

No dramatic declaration.

No promise.

Just honesty.

And somehow, it meant more.

I smiled faintly.

"That's a surprisingly reasonable answer."

"I'm capable of those."

"Occasionally."

He smiled.

The tension between us eased.

For the first time since we had left the office, I could breathe.

Then my phone buzzed.

I looked down.

A message from Mia.

Are you okay?

I typed:

I'm fine. Just dealing with something.

She responded immediately.

That's what people say when they're absolutely not fine.

I smiled.

I'll explain later.

I put the phone down.

Adrian looked at me.

"Your friend?"

"Yes."

"She worries about you."

"She does."

"Good."

I smiled.

"You sound like you like her."

"I've met her twice."

"Exactly."

He shook his head.

For a moment, everything felt almost normal.

Then his phone rang.

He answered.

"Yes?"

I watched his expression change.

"You're sure?"

A pause.

"Send it to me."

He ended the call.

"What?"

"The technical team examined the photograph."

"And?"

"It's real."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"The photograph hasn't been altered."

I sat very still.

"So my father was alive."

"Yes."

Three months after he disappeared.

I closed my eyes.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

Adrian noticed.

He reached across the table.

His hand stopped halfway.

He looked at me.

I looked at his hand.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around mine.

No words.

No promises.

Just warmth.

I didn't pull away.

And neither did he.

---

Adrian's POV

I didn't know how long we stayed like that.

Her hand in mine.

The café around us fading into background noise.

I had held Lena's hand before.

Briefly.

Professionally.

Never like this.

This felt different.

She looked tired.

Vulnerable.

But she didn't look broken.

That was one of the things I admired about her.

She could be hurt without becoming helpless.

After a while, she pulled her hand away.

"I should go home."

I nodded.

"Yes."

We left the café.

The drive back was quieter than before.

But it wasn't uncomfortable.

When we reached her building, I parked.

She didn't immediately get out.

"Adrian?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not lying to me."

I looked at her.

"I almost did."

She frowned.

"What?"

"I considered keeping some of this from you."

"Why?"

"Because I thought it would protect you."

She looked at me for a moment.

"Don't."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

I nodded.

"I promise."

She opened the door.

Then she paused.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She stepped out.

I watched her enter the building.

Only when the doors closed behind her did I start the car.

I didn't drive away immediately.

Something about the photograph bothered me.

Not the fact that Thomas was alive.

The location.

I pulled out my phone and enlarged the image.

The train station sign was partially visible behind them.

I recognized it.

My stomach tightened.

It wasn't a New York station.

It wasn't even in the United States.

I zoomed in again.

The letters became clearer.

King's Cross.

London.

I stared at the screen.

Thomas Hart had disappeared in New York.

Three months later, he had been photographed in London.

With Elliot Mason.

And someone had sent the photograph to Lena now.

That meant someone knew where the photograph came from.

Which meant someone had been watching the investigation.

I called my head of security.

"Find every record we have connected to Elliot Mason's travel history eleven years ago."

"How far back?"

"Start three months after Thomas Hart disappeared."

"Understood."

I ended the call.

Then another thought hit me.

If Thomas had gone to London, why?

And who had helped him?

I started the car.

I had barely reached the next intersection when my phone rang again.

Unknown number.

I answered.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Who is this?"

Silence.

Then a distorted voice spoke.

"You're looking in the wrong place."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who knows what happened."

"Where is Thomas Hart?"

A low laugh.

"You still think he's the victim."

My stomach dropped.

"What does that mean?"

"Ask yourself why he ran."

"He didn't run."

"That's what you want to believe."

"Tell me where he is."

"You're closer than you think."

The line went dead.

I immediately tried to call back.

Disconnected.

I stared at the phone.

Then I noticed something on the passenger seat.

I hadn't seen it before.

A small white envelope.

I picked it up.

My name was written across the front.

No stamp.

No address.

Just:

ADRIAN VALE.

I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Not of Thomas.

Not of Elliot.

Of my father.

Standing beside a train.

And behind him was a young man I recognized immediately.

Me.

Seventeen years old.

The photograph had been taken the same night Thomas disappeared.

I turned it over.

There was one sentence written on the back.

You were there.

I stared at the words.

Memory came rushing back.

A train station.

My father's hand on my shoulder.

A man arguing with him.

A frightened teenage version of myself being told to wait in the car.

And a face I had spent eleven years trying to forget.

Elliot Mason.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered.

I remembered everything.

And for the first time in eleven years, I understood why my father had never wanted me to talk about that night.