Ethan
I sat at the bar, fingers tap-tap-tapping against the wood in irritation while Rowan worked the tablet beside me. The grainy security footage from the previous night flickered onto the screen—shots of the building's entrance, the lobby, the elevator. My jaw tightened as I leaned in, waiting for a clear image of the woman who had gone home with me. But, of course, her face was never fully visible.
"She's good," Rowan muttered, tapping the screen to replay a segment. "Really good. Every camera misses her or only catches her from an angle. It's like she knows exactly where they are."
I scowled, frustration simmering in my chest. "You think that was intentional?"
Rowan shot me a look of disbelief. "You don't?"
I exhaled sharply, my thoughts racing. Her movements and the way she evaded the cameras were too deliberate to be a coincidence. We'd already reviewed the footage from my building, and it was the same story—no identifying shots, no details that could link her back to anything. It felt intentional, precise, and it made my discomfort grow with every passing second.
"Let's see the bar footage," I demanded, my irritation clear.
Rowan nodded, swiping to another screen to pull up the bar's security logs. His expression soured almost instantly.
"What is it?" I asked, catching the shift.
He tapped the screen, pointing to the timestamps. "The bar cameras have been down for three days."
I stiffened, the disbelief in my chest hardening into frustration. "You're kidding."
"Nope," Rowan replied, zooming in on the blank entries. "No recordings. No logs. Just… nothing."
I leaned in closer, my voice sharpening. "And no one noticed?"
Rowan shook his head. "Apparently not. The manager said their system's been acting up, but they thought everything was still running fine."
I clenched my jaw, the weight of disbelief sinking into me like lead. "Three days. You're telling me they went three days without realizing their cameras weren't recording anything? That's absurd. Most systems send alerts if something like this happens."
"Exactly," Rowan agreed, his tone just as pointed. "Security cameras are supposed to be checked regularly. If a system crashes, there should be notifications. You don't just ignore it for three days and not know something's wrong."
The fact that the bar's cameras were offline wasn't just inconvenient—it was suspicious. It fit too perfectly with her sudden appearance and the way she vanished without a trace.
"She could've done it," Rowan said, voicing the thought I'd been trying to push aside. "She could've turned the cameras off before she arrived."
I shook my head slightly, frustration boiling over. "If she did, wouldn't she have stuck around? Left something behind? Tried to get closer to me?"
"Not necessarily," Rowan shot back, irritation lacing his tone. "What if she didn't want to leave anything? What if her whole purpose was to make you question everything?"
My father's voice echoed in my mind like a nagging irritation: She could be a spy. Someone whose purpose is to get close to you. You can't afford to be careless.
Was he right? Had someone orchestrated this whole thing—turned off the cameras, planted her, only for her to disappear as quickly as she'd appeared?
"But why didn't she give me her name?" I muttered, mostly to myself, the frustration bubbling to the surface.
Rowan leaned back, narrowing his eyes as he considered the question. "Maybe that wasn't part of the plan. Maybe whoever's behind this is trying to keep her untraceable. Someone who raises suspicion but leaves no trail."
The weight of his words settled heavily on me. I crossed my arms, the tension coiling tighter with every second. "So you think this was intentional. A setup."
"Feels that way," Rowan replied. "The cameras going down, her dodging every security feed in your building—it's too neat."
I shrugged, the tension threatening to consume me. "Then that means whoever's pulling the strings isn't finished yet."
Rowan met my gaze, his expression solemn, like we were both caught in a web of doubt and frustration. Whatever had started last night—it wasn't over.