Chapter 10
I stood up from the bench, taking a deep, steadying breath. The air in the terminal still smelled of stale coffee and industrial floor wax, but the oppressive weight in my chest had shifted into a cold, relentless resolve.
I walked over to my luggage cart, which had been recovered by the terminal staff and placed near the information desk. My folder of subpoena files was still there, untouched.
I picked up the thick blue folder, slid it under my good arm, and walked toward the glass sliding doors leading out to the taxi stand.
As I stepped out into the crisp, cold morning air, my phone—which the police tech team had replaced with a temporary burner unit—vibrated in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out with my right hand and tapped the screen.
It was a text message from an unknown, encrypted number. There was no text, only a single attached file—an image.
I opened the image.
It was a high-resolution photograph taken from a distance, showing me standing at the taxi stand at that exact second. In the reflection of the glass window behind me, visible in the upper corner of the frame, was a woman standing near the parking garage elevator.
She was wearing a dark trench coat, her long hair loose around her shoulders, holding a black coffee cup.
She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking directly at me. And on her face was a faint, knowing smile—the calm, enigmatic expression of a grandmaster who had just completed the first move in a much larger game.
Below the photograph was a single line of text:
“Some tickets can never be canceled, David. See you in Cedar Ridge.”
I looked up instantly, scanning the bustling crowd near the parking garage elevator. The woman in the dark trench coat was already gone, swallowed by the endless stream of travelers rushing toward their destinations.
I stood on the curb for a long moment, the cold wind whipping my hair across my forehead. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt wet and black like a dark mirror reflecting the grey sky above.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the small white thermal ticket, and let it go.
It fluttered out of my fingers, caught in the cold gust of wind, turning over and over in the air—upside down, right side up, spinning endlessly—before landing softly on the wet pavement, where it was instantly crushed beneath the heavy tire of a departing yellow cab.
I opened the door of the next taxi in line, slid into the back seat, and looked at the driver.
May you like
"Where to, pal?" the driver asked, checking his rearview mirror.
"Cedar Ridge," I said, my voice steady, dark, and clear. "And don't stop for anything."
