The car disappeared into traffic before we could close the distance.
One second he was there, engine screaming, tires cutting hard into the turn, and the next he was gone, swallowed by the road like he had done it a hundred times before.
I slowed to a stop.
Frank caught up beside me, slightly out of breath. "We lost him."
I didn't answer.
I turned back toward the motel without a word. Frank and the others followed.
The room still smelled like cheap detergent and something stale underneath it.
Room 117.
The door hung half off the hinge from the kick. One of the men pushed it open fully and stepped in first. I followed right behind him.
Empty.
Too empty.
The bed was made. Sheets tight. No wrinkles. No sign anyone had actually slept in it. The table was cleared. No food. No trash.
The air felt off.
Frank moved to the bathroom, checked inside, then shook his head. "Nothing."
One of the men crouched near the dresser, running his hand along the back panel. "No bags. No clothes."
I walked further in, slower, letting my eyes do the work. Not looking for what was obvious. Looking for what didn't belong.
I turned toward Frank. "He was still here."
They went still.
I walked to the vent near the lower wall, crouched and ran my fingers along the edge.
Loose. Too easy.
I pulled it open.
Inside, tucked just far enough back to avoid a casual check, was a thin stack of photographs and a small burner phone.
Frank let out a low breath. "Well. That's not good."
I ignored him and pulled the photos out first.
Ethan.
And me.
Different angles. Different days. Outside his apartment. Near the studio. One from across the street while he was on his phone. One of me stepping out of my car. Another taken from a distance I didn't immediately recognize.
My chest tightened slightly.
Not panic.
Recognition.
The phone came next. Cheap. Unregistered. Locked.
Of course it was.
I stared at it for a moment then slipped both the photos and the phone into my bag.
"He wanted us to find this," I said.
Frank frowned. "Why would he leave evidence?"
"Because it's not evidence." I stood up. "It's a message."
Silence settled over the room.
He had an exit plan. Of course he did.
My phone rang.
I didn't need to check the screen. I already knew.
I stepped out into the corridor before answering.
"Yes."
"I told you to stay put."
My grandfather's voice came through sharp and controlled and unmistakably angry.
"I had it handled."
"I know," I said.
"Then why am I hearing that you're kicking down motel doors and chasing ghosts across the city?"
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes briefly.
"He's here," I said. "I saw him."
A pause.
Then quieter. More dangerous.
"Did you confirm it?"
"No. But it's him."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"You don't get to decide that," he said. "Not alone."
"I'm not guessing," I replied. "He knew I would come. He left something behind."
"That is exactly why you should not be there."
His voice hardened again.
"You are dealing with someone who is thinking ahead of you."
I said nothing.
Because he wasn't wrong.
"I'm sending someone to you," he continued. "You will not move without them. Do you understand me?"
"I can handle myself."
"This is not about what you can handle."
A beat.
Then lower.
"This is about what happens if you're wrong."
Silence stretched between us.
"I'll stay put," I said finally.
Not entirely true. But enough.
"Good," he said. "We will talk again soon."
The line went dead.
I didn't go home immediately.
I gave Frank instructions, told him to keep eyes on the area, then got in my car and drove.
There was somewhere else I needed to be.
I called him when I got there.
"I'm outside."
A pause. Then, "Raina?"
"Yeah."
"I'm coming down."
I ended the call and leaned back in my seat, watching the entrance.
A few seconds later the door opened and Ethan stepped out.
He looked relaxed. Lighter than he had been in days.
Something in my chest shifted at that.
He walked up to the car, a small smile already forming.
"Raina. Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," I said. "I was nearby and thought I'd check on you."
Not entirely a lie.
"I'm glad you did," he said. "How's your mum?"
"Better. She's recovering well." He exhaled softly. "It finally feels like things are settling."
I nodded. "That's good."
We stood there for a moment, neither of us rushing the conversation.
"I didn't expect to see you tonight," he said.
"I know."
A small smile. "Not complaining."
I looked at him properly then. The way he stood. The way his shoulders had finally relaxed. The way his voice didn't carry that same weight it had in hospital corridors.
He looked happy.
And I realized, quietly, that I liked that.
More than I should.
"I should go," I said after a moment.
"Yeah." He nodded. Then hesitated. "Raina, wait."
I turned back.
He reached out gently and took my hand. The contact was light. Almost uncertain.
"I was thinking," he said, then stopped, like he was adjusting the words before saying them out loud.
"About what?"
"About us," he said.
My heart stuttered once.
"I know things started because of work," he continued. "And technically that's over now. But I don't really want it to be over."
I felt my fingers tighten slightly in his.
"I'd like to ask you out," he said, steadier now. "Properly. Not meetings disguised as work or random coincidences. Just you and me."
I blinked.
For a second the words didn't land.
"I..." I started, then stopped. "I didn't expect that."
He smiled slightly. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," I said quickly. "No, it's just..."
I looked down briefly then back up at him.
"I'd like that."
His grip softened. Not tighter. Just warmer.
"Good," he said.
I nodded. "Good night Ethan."
"Good night Raina."
I pulled my hand free gently, got into the car and closed the door.
As I drove off I looked back once.
He was still standing there.
Watching.
By the time I got home the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I went straight to my room, locked the door behind me and set my bag down.
The photos. The phone.
I didn't take them out yet.
Instead I sat on the edge of the bed and let everything catch up.
The chase. The room. The call. Ethan.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it for one ring.
Then answered.
I didn't speak.
A second passed.
Then the voice came through, low and distorted just enough to blur the edges.
"You still got it," he said. "Still as sharp as ever."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"I knew you'd find me."
I closed my eyes for the briefest second.
There was no doubt now. Not in the voice. Not in the way he said it.
"Malcolm!"
Clip.
The call ended.