Later that evening, when the kids had been tucked in, and Aliya clutched her bunny like a lifeline, my burner phone buzzed.
A number I hadn’t saved—but I knew the pattern. Joe Smith. My ghost from the past. Hacker. Fixer. The man who knew things no one else should.
I stepped onto the balcony, away from the quiet hum of lullabies and bedtime murmurs.
“Talk,” I said.
A crackle on the line. “He found it.”
My breath didn’t hitch. My fingers didn’t even flinch. But my lips curled in a satisfied smirk.
“Found what?”
“The park. CCTV from a year ago—your body—collapsing. Then my friend, Leon—saved her. Mouth to mouth. Hospital records. He’s tearing his own files apart trying to stitch the story.”
I chuckled under my breath. The game was heating up.
I turned my eyes to the misty city below
