Page 28 of Cruel Obsession

Missing. Six years.

I pull up another search window. Type her name plus “twin” plus “missing.”

Results flood in.

News articles from six years ago. Police reports. Missing person flyers with a face that matches Mirabel’s perfectly. Debra McLeod. Disappeared during a school trip at age eighteen. Never found.

My stomach tightens. The arousal that’s been simmering since I saw her photo doesn’t fade—it transforms, sharpens into something more focused.

I don’t know why it bugs me, but something about this feels… off.

I stand, pacing to the window, then back to my desk. My mind races through scenarios, connections, possibilities.

Disappeared during a school trip.

Age eighteen.

A knock at the door—tentative, hesitant.

“Enter,” I bark.

Leo enters, hovering near the threshold. “Arkady, the weapons inventory you requested for Ashwater is complete.”

I wave him closer, not bothering to minimize Mirabel’s photo on my screen. His eyes flicker to it, then quickly away when he notices me watching.

“Leave it.” I gesture to the desk.

He sets the folder down, his movements careful, precise. “Also, Alexei and Andrei report movement at the harbor warehouse. Unusual activity that might—”

“Is it an immediate threat?”

“No, but—”

“Then it can wait.” I turn back to my screen, dismissal clear.

Leo clears his throat. “There’s one more thing. Sergei Tulikov was seen meeting with Baranov today.”

That gets my full attention. Anton Baranov controls half the docks, and if he’s talking to Sergei, trouble is brewing. Which is hardly a surprise.

“Where?”

“Restaurant Morye. Private room. Two hours.”

I nod once. “Have Alexei follow Baranov. I want to know everyone he talks to next.”

“Already done.” Leo straightens, some of his nervousness fading as he falls into the familiar rhythm of business. “Anything else you need tonight?”

I glance at Mirabel’s photo, then back to Leo. “Privacy.”

He inclines his head, taking the hint. “Of course. Good night, boss.”

The door closes behind him. I’m alone again with her. With the mystery she represents.

I scrub both hands down my face, stubble rough against my palms. The smart move would be to delete her application. Forget her name. Find someone else.

But I can’t.

I stare at her photo again. That careful smile. Those eyes that held mine at the altar, steady even as chaos erupted around us.