He turns to me with that quiet ritual I've come to know—his version of goodbye. He takes my wrist, lifts it, and presses a lingering kiss against my skin, his eyes locked on mine. The heat in that gaze burns away reason, leaving only ache.
How can a man look at me like that and still be capable of cruelty?
But I know better. I know I'm blind—just as Clara must have been.
And still… I can't look away.
###
Why am I here, Roberto? There's no picture of you anywhere. And that's my fault.
Years ago, I broke into the school yearbook room and removed every photo of us. When you asked why, I told you, "If we grow up to be criminals, they won't be able to track us." I believed it then.
Now your ashes sit in a nameless jar behind plastic glass in a quiet corner of a Catholic cemetery. No face. No name. Nothing to remember you by.
I take a seat across from you. "I met someone," I murmur. "He… reminds me of you. When I look into his eyes, sometimes I feel like I'm seeing you." A quiet breath escapes me. "Silly, isn't it?"
Alive or dead, you always understood me. I never had to explain anything.
That was the problem.
You understood everything—me, yourself, everyone else. And I let you carry that weight for both of us. I stayed careless. Detached. More interested in ideas than people.
If I had paid attention—if I had cared enough to understand what you were feeling—I would've seen it. The way you were preparing to leave. The spending. The way you gave money to my parents. The prom dress.
You were saying goodbye.
But I didn't see it. Not until you were gone.
You left in the middle of the night with a note. You went after your father—Diego Ramirez. And three years later, I found what was left of you. Burned. Unrecognizable. Only DNA to prove it was you.
I exhales shakily. "You were my emotional compass. You handled everything human so I didn't have to. You were the feeling… so I could be the logic."
And I never questioned it.
"I think I'm starting to understand now." My voice softens. "It's been six years, but… I'm learning. I can read people. I can see what they feel—even the things they don't say. I can almost explain it the way you used to."
A faint laugh escapes me, fragile and uneven. "Turns out feelings aren't something you solve. You just… accept them."
My gaze drops.
"It's been the hardest part," I admit quietly. "To feel this heartbreak for you without you here to explain it to me. It baffled me how you could feel the way you did. How you could differentiate feelings, understand their origins, and show them to me. But now I see that you felt because you lived in the present. I was always living for the future, wasn't I? I was chasing my version of a world that Star Trek had shown me." Tears flood my face, as they usually do whenever I visit him.
"You were the only one who could pull me back."
I wipe at my tears, but they don't stop.
"He does that too," I whisper. "When I'm with him, I stop thinking. He shuts everything off. I don't even know his name."
The question slips out before I can stop it.
"When did you know you loved me?"
Silence answers.
"Did you love me because you could see me… more clearly than I could see myself?"
My chest tightens.
"How is it that I love him now when I don't even know anything about him?" My voice drops. "With you, I chose it. I remember choosing you."
A pause.
"With him… I don't know when it started."
The thought lingers, sharp and unsettling.
"Do I love him because I think he's you?"
Then I remember why I'm here. Whenever I get stuck on a case, I come to Roberto.
I push off the chair and start pacing. "Okay… Clara Smith." My thoughts fall into place, one by one. "We have John and Nathan. Jason and Mr. Silence. And Mr. Wong." I exhale slowly. "Why would Wong hire me to find her? I went through everything—his work, his personal digital footprint. There's nothing. No connection."
I stop, frowning. "They're all tied to her disappearance… but which one gets me to her fastest?"
Then there's D. I could always ask him to check trafficking routes just in case that's how she is being smuggled out.
I glance back at the urn. "He knows more than he lets on," I murmur. "He's like you. He'd lie to protect me." My lips press together. "I trust his intentions. But… is he being overprotective?"
Silence answers.
"If you were here," I say quietly, "who would you choose?"
The question lingers longer than it should.
My chest tightens. "But if you were here…" A hollow breath escapes me. "I wouldn't be doing this, would I?"
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I'd still be me. Inventing. Building. Chasing ideas. Carefree." My gaze drops. "Unburdened by all of this."
The weight settles back in.
"Have I been looking for you… or for closure?" My hand presses lightly against my chest. "Is that why I keep searching for people who disappear? Because I never found you in time?"
The truth sits somewhere just out of reach.
"Have the last six years just been me trying to forgive myself?"
I close my eyes.
For a moment, something shifts—lightens, just slightly.
"I think I'm getting there," I whisper. "Learning how to live without you."
A pause.
"Will it ever feel the same?" My voice softens. "Will I ever feel that light again… or is this just what living feels like now?"
###
Talking to Roberto always gives me clarity. By the time I reach my warehouse, I know where to start.
Six computers I built arc in a half-circle at the center, all wired into a server I assembled myself. A portable restroom sits in the corner—proof of the hours I disappear here. One table. One chair. Both angled toward a large screen where I project cases.
Usually, the boards are covered—photos, notes, connections threaded together. Now they're empty. Both of them. The tabletop is clear. The screens are black.
I stare at it all, the silence pressing in. I've been off. Slow. Distracted. Missing things I shouldn't miss.
What's different? Another girl. Another secret life. No. That's not it. I power the system on.
"My journal site is actually an inactive AI," I mutter, more to myself than anything. "Pi."
The system hums to life.
"Pi, analyze all messages from John's phone. Flag anything unusual—names, activities, patterns."
"System awakened by voice activation," Pi responds smoothly. "Hello, Ace. You've finally found yourself in a difficult situation, I see."
I frown. "What are you talking about?"
"You didn't disable recording on your phone."
A beat.
"So I hear everything."
Crap.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Are you done analyzing?"
"Do you want to know Mr. Silence's identity or—"
"No." I cut in immediately. "Just do what I asked. Find—"
"Jose Rodriguez."
Everything in me stills.
"…Show me."
The screen lights up.
Jose Rodriguez has put a mark on Akira Lounge. You know what to do.
My pulse slows instead of spikes.
"Mark?" I murmur. "Pi, pull every case where his name appears."
"Four matches. Two unsolved."
Files open across the screen.
I skim. Human trafficking ring. I missed the connection. Terrorist bombing in France—289 dead. His name buried in fragments.
My jaw tightens.
Jose Rodriguez. Wanted by the FBI. Interpol. CIA. DEA. NCIS. Everyone. No photo. No confirmed identity.
And yet—He's everywhere. Weapons. Drugs. Trafficking. Terror. Invisible… and untouchable.