Whispered Shadows

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Where It Falls

Ryder

The diner is quieter than usual, the clinking of dishes and low hum of conversation blending into the background. Asher sits in a booth near the back, his laptop open in front of him. His face is drawn the harsh light above emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes. Whatever he found must've been keeping him up.

Noa and I walk in, her shoulder brushing mine as we head to the booth. The waitress behind the counter looks up briefly before returning to refilling a pot of coffee. I scan the room instinctively, my gaze lingering on anyone who looks out of place.

We know Shadow has been following us and like Noa said he could be in plain sight. He could be any one of these people sitting in the booth or working behind the counter. It's what makes all of this so frustrating.

"Ryder, Noa," Asher greets us, closing the laptop and leaning back in his seat. His sharp brown eyes flick between us, lingering on Noa for a moment. "Glad you made it."

"Nice choice," I say, gesturing to the booth. "Subtle, out of the way."

He smirks faintly. "Can't be too careful with what we're dealing with."

Noa slides into the booth first, and I sit beside her, keeping my body angled slightly toward the rest of the diner. Just in case. She leans forward, her fingers laced together on the table. I can tell she's eager for answers.

"What did you find?" she asks, cutting straight to the point.

Asher sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's not good." He pulls out a manila folder from his bag and lays it on the table. "This is everything I could dig up on the guy in the photo—the one from Mallory's stash."

He opens the folder, revealing a grainy mugshot of a man in his late 30s, his features sharp and severe. His dark eyes stare straight ahead, cold and unfeeling.

"Name's Victor Lane," Asher says. "He's been linked to several missing persons cases over the past decade, but he's never been charged. Always a step ahead of the law, always slipping through the cracks."

I lean in, studying the photo. The face is familiar, but I can't place where I've seen it before.

"Do you recognize him?" I ask Noa, glancing at her.

She shakes her head, her brows furrowing. "No. Should I?" She continues to study the photo.

Asher taps the photo. "He was in the periphery of Gia's life, though not directly connected. He worked as a contractor at some of the galleries she visited, handling installations. Quiet guy, didn't stand out much. But he was there."

"That's not enough to make him a suspect," I point out, my voice edged with frustration.

"It's not just that," Asher says. He pulls out another photo, this one of a handwritten note. The words are scrawled in messy, jagged letters: "You're so close, but you're missing the point. Look deeper. It's all about her."

The same words Shadow had texted Noa.

My stomach tightens. "Where did you find this?"

"In the possession of another victim," Asher says grimly. "A woman named Claire Wells. She disappeared five years ago, the same patterns as Gia. Her family found this note among her belongings after she went missing. It's his signature."

Noa's face pales, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "So, he's been doing this for years," she says quietly. "It's not just Gia. He's playing the same game with all of them."

"And every time, he escalates," Asher adds. "Each victim is more intricately tied into his web, more personal. Gia wasn't random. She was a calculated choice. And now, so are you."