Dominic’s POV
For three days, I’ve been following a ghost. Every record says Elia Hale died fifteen years ago the official line, the autopsy, the sealed file signed by Stanley himself. But ghosts don’t leave new fingerprints.
And hers just showed up in Lisbon.
The security footage was grainy, taken from a marina checkpoint: a woman stepping off a ferry, hooded, carrying a duffel. Average height. Pale hair. But the way she moved shoulders tense, right hand brushing her pocket like she was hiding a scar made my chest tighten.
Elia used to do that when she was nervous. So I booked a flight, used one of my old aliases, and came here.
Now, leaning against a cracked stone wall across from a rundown hostel, I watch her through a narrow gap between curtains. She’s inside room 207. Light on.
