ISABELLA
Vito returned to my office with a grim expression, a folder tucked under his arm. I didn’t need him to speak to know the answer, but I forced myself to ask anyway.
“Well?”
“They’re fake,” he said. “Clean. Professionally done. Whoever used them knew what they were doing.”
My jaw tightened. Fake plates meant planning. Intent. Someone had gone out of their way to hide a vehicle connected to Adrian. Someone who didn’t want him found. Or someone who didn’t want me to find him. Oren’s voice echoed in my mind — a woman who looked like you — and the unease that had been simmering in my chest flared into something sharper.
“Widen the search,” I said. “Every road, every cabin, every abandoned property within fifty kilometers— no, make it one hundred kilometers of the river. If she look
