Addie stared at the leather seats like they were from another universe. “Near the old garment blocks,” she said softly. “Past the taco stand with the blue sign. Then right by the tire shop.”
The convoy cut through Los Angeles traffic like a blade. They left glossy billboards and glass towers behind and entered streets that felt older, tighter, harder.
Addie guided them with frightening accuracy.
Finally, she pointed.
“That one,” she said. “The one that looks like it’s holding its breath.”
The house was tall but worn out, paint peeling, windows covered—except one.
Grant didn’t wait.
He hit the metal door with his fist. “Serena!” he shouted.
Silence.
Kade’s men forced the lock in seconds.
Inside, the air smelled stale, like a place that didn’t want visitors.
“Search every room,” Grant ordered.
He found a thin mattress on the floor, a half-empty water bottle, and in the corner a silk scarf with embroidered initials.
He knew that scarf.
He lifted it to his face, and a familiar perfume hit him like memory.
“She was here,” he said, voice breaking. “Recently.”
Then one of Kade’s men called out from the living room.
“Boss… you need to see this.”
Behind a wall panel was a small monitoring setup—hidden cameras tucked into ceiling trim, a recording system, a screen full of timestamps.
Grant leaned in.
And there she was.
Serena. Alive.
Paler. Thinner. Sitting on the mattress, staring into nothing, like she was forcing herself not to disappear.
