Whispered Shadows

Chapter Eighteen

Shifting Shadows

Ryder

It's been eight days since the house. Eight days since Noa and I stood in that suffocating room, surrounded by images of her. Since we stared at that chilling message scrawled on the wall: "You're so close, but you're missing the point. Look deeper. It's all about her."

Those words have been seared into my mind, repeating like a broken record. Every lead, every clue we've followed, keeps bringing us back to the same haunting question: what does he want with Noa?

The lack of progress is eating at me.

Noa's been quiet since then, but not in the way I expected. She's thrown herself into distraction—her classes, her routine, even her new friendship with Lila. On the surface, she's holding it together, but I know better. I can see it in the way she avoids my eyes when I bring up the investigation, in the way her hands tremble ever so slightly when she thinks no one's watching.

Yet, here I am, pacing the small space of my hotel room, feeling like the walls are closing in. I've gone over the files a hundred times, pored over every word Gia ever wrote, and analyzed every photo we've found. But the pieces just won't fit.

Asher hasn't been much help either. He's as frustrated as I am, though he hides it better. He keeps saying we need more time, but time isn't something we have. Shadow's playing a long game, but Noa is his target, and the closer we get to the truth, the more dangerous this becomes for her.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab it, half-expecting another cryptic text from Shadow. Instead, it's Asher.

"Fox," I answer, my voice sharp.

"You need to get down here," he says without preamble. "I've got something."

My stomach tightens. "What is it?"

"It's about Gia," he says. "And her project."

***

I meet Asher at a diner on the edge of town. The diner is one of those relics from the 60s, with chrome edges, black-and-white checkered floors, and faded red booths that have seen better days. The scent of coffee mingles with grease from the kitchen, and the low murmur of conversation hums around me as I push through the glass door.

He's already waiting when I arrive, a manila folder on the table in front of him. He is sitting in a booth toward the back, his broad shoulders hunched over a cup of coffee. He's staring at the table, absently tracing the rim of the mug with his finger. He looks tired—dark circles under his brown eyes, his usual clean shave replaced by a shadow of stubble.

"Fox," he says as I slide into the booth across from him. His tone is clipped, but there's a thread of tension running beneath it that sets me on edge.

"What's going on?" I ask, leaning forward.

Instead of answering, he nods toward the waitress, who's hovering nearby with a coffee pot. I shake my head, waving her off, and Asher waits until she's gone before sliding a manila folder across the table toward me.

"What's this?" I ask, sliding into the booth across from him.

He pushes the folder toward me. "Something I should've found sooner," Asher says, his voice low. "It's about Gia. And her work."

I flip open the folder, my eyes scanning the contents. The first page is an invoice from a local print shop, dated a few months before Gia disappeared. It's for a large batch of photographs, labeled simply as "Project Celestial." Behind that is a series of emails between Gia and someone named Mallory Hayes. There's also a photograph of a woman in her late thirties with sharp features and short blond hair.