My phone buzzed, shattering the heavy silence. I glanced at the screen—2:17 AM, the digital clock on my nightstand confirmed. Sleep was a mortal luxury I had long since forgotten the taste of on nights like this. Nights haunted by him.
It was Silas.
"Madam Giana. I trust you found the footage satisfactory?"
"Yes, Silas. Thank you." My voice was tighter than I intended, the words clipped and strained.
"There is... a further matter." His tone was carefully neutral, which from Silas meant something was profoundly wrong. "The proprietor—AKA my wife—was unusually reticent. It required a significant persuasion bonus to acquire the file. She mentioned something I thought you should know."
I smiled faintly despite myself. Eleanor Backston, Silas's wife of forty years, was a force of nature disguised as a cozy café owner. She ran her establishment with fierce maternal pride, treating every regular like family and guarding their privacy like a dragon hoarding gold. The woman had once physically thrown out a private investigator who'd dared to ask about a customer's habits, brandishing a broom like Excalibur and threatening to call the police, the newspaper, and "every busybody in the neighbourhood" if he didn't leave immediately. Silas had told me that story with a mixture of horror and profound admiration. Her café was a sanctuary, and sanctuaries required discretion.
But Mrs. Backston had always had a soft spot for me. Perhaps it was the way I came in alone, ordered the same tea, and sat in the corner with my books and my silence. Perhaps it was something older, something instinctive—a woman's intuition that sensed a kindred spirit carrying a weight she couldn't name. She never pried, never asked questions, but she always made sure my cup was full and that students who got too loud were gently redirected away from my corner.
I had never asked her for anything. Not once, in all the years I had been coming to her café. So, when Silas approached her, when he explained that I needed the footage—me, specifically—she had hesitated. For Eleanor to hand over security footage, even to her own husband, meant Silas had paid through the nose and probably promised a week of doing dishes besides. The fact that she'd relented at all spoke to either the size of his "persuasion bonus" or the genuine worry in his eyes when he'd asked. Probably both.
But there was more. Before he could continue, I heard the familiar rustle of papers on his end, the way Silas always organized his thoughts before delivering important news.
"Mrs. Backston," he said slowly, "asked if you were in trouble. I assured her you weren't. She asked if this had anything to do with the man who had been staring at you. I said nothing, which was answer enough."
He paused, and I could hear the weight of what came next.
"And then she sighed—a long, knowing exhale—and said, 'That girl has been waiting for him her whole life. Maybe it's time she found him.'"
She handed over the footage without another word.
The "persuasion bonus" had been accepted, but I suspected it was more for show than necessity. Mrs. Backston, with her sharp eyes and her womanly wisdom, had seen something in me from the very beginning.