Page 137 of Yours to Keep
“Finn’s coming home,” I say. My voice breaks slightly on the edge of it. “Eli, too.”
That lands between us like a vow we both intend to keep, no matter what it costs. I turn back to the room. Every person is watching now, waiting for what we become next.
And I feel something shift. Not clarity or control, but something sharper. Because people like Adrian always think they’re untouchable. That they exist outside consequence. But they always forget the same thing.
They leave traces.
Movement. Money. People. Patterns.
I step forward.
“We find them,” I say. “Every contact. Every associate. Every vehicle. Every camera between here and anywhere he could move. Ports. Roads. Airstrips. Safe houses. Anyone who’s ever been within reach of him in the last five years, we pull it all.”
My voice steadies into something hard enough to carry.
“We don’t stop until they’re home.”
Because I can still see Eli’s face in that last second before everything went wrong.
And because there isn’t a version of this where I let him disappear from me again.
* * *
The break comes after midnight.
I’m halfway through what feels like my tenth coffee when Deck appears, too fast to be anything but bad news. Silas and Mack are still talking over maps when he crosses the room, tablet already in hand, and the moment I see his face I know before he even speaks.
“We got him.”
Everything stops.
I’m on my feet instantly. “What?”
He doesn’t hesitate. He slides the tablet across the table, and the image fills the screen: grainy CCTV, black SUV, same shape, same plate, same sick familiarity that makes my stomach tighten.
“Thirty miles south,” Deck says. “Traffic camera picked it up two hours ago.”
My eyes lock on it like if I stare hard enough I can pull Eli back through the screen.
“How?”
Deck zooms in, fast and precise. “We tracked it through CCTV networks. It turned off onto Williams Beach Road. A shop camera caught the turn.”
Silas let out a low whistle. “That’s private land. Forest. Dunes. Wealth pockets. You can disappear there easy.”
Deck nods once, already moving. Mack is pulling up maps, satellite overlays, property lines spreading across the screen like a net.
Williams Beach stretches out in front of us in cold digital clarity. Long coastline. Dense forest. Expensive homes hidden behind gates and trees. The kind of place people go when they don’t want to be found.
“Might be empty houses in there,” Mack says, scanning. “Seasonal owners. Lots of gaps.”
“Then find them,” I say.
The room fractures into movement again. Calls, typing, search filters, systems waking up. Three hours of checking ownership records, land registries, shell companies. Nothing clean. Nothing obvious. Just noise.
Then Deck stops.
“What?” I ask immediately. Because Deck doesn’t freeze like that unless something has just clicked into place.
