Chapter 2 - Ghosts of Greenpoint
The town car smelled of rain, cold leather, and expensive cedarwood. Outside the tinted windows, the sleet began to slick the asphalt of Greenpoint, turning the streetlights into blurred smears of amber and grey.
In the passenger seat, Rowan clutched a manila envelope Vance’s driver had handed her the moment she climbed inside. Inside were the contents of David’s laptop backup—retrieved by Vance’s tech specialists before the machine had even finished syncing.
“Look at the timestamps,” Vance said from the back seat, his voice calm, measured, cutting through the low hum of the heater.
Rowan scrolled through a spreadsheet of flight bookings and hotel receipts. “He booked a ticket to Miami under the name Arthur Pendelton two weeks ago. But he didn't board.”
“Of course not. Miami is what he wanted us to think,” Vance said. “Check the smaller transactions. The neighborhood spots. The local dry cleaners, the hardware stores, the storage lockers.”
Rowan’s thumb paused over a row of numbers from a small self-storage facility off McGuinness Boulevard. A monthly recurring fee of one hundred and forty dollars, paid in cash every first of the month for two years.
“He told me he rented that unit to store my old college books,” Rowan murmured, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. “He said my apartment was too cramped.”
“It wasn't for books,” Vance said. “Turn around, Leo,” he instructed the driver.
Twenty minutes later, the town car pulled into the shadow of a rusted corrugated gate bearing the faded letters North Brooklyn Secure Storage. The facility was quiet, smelling of damp cardboard and stale air. Vance didn't leave the car, but he handed Rowan a heavy iron key with a brass tag.
“Unit 412. It’s on the second floor. Take my phone; if anyone approaches you, dial one.”
Rowan took the key. Her fingers were shaking, not from the cold, but from the sickening clarity of how thoroughly she had been studied, managed, and discarded.
The second floor was a labyrinth of wire-mesh partitions under flickering fluorescent strips. Unit 412 sat at the dead end of aisle D. The lock was heavy-duty, but the key turned with a smooth, oiled click.
When the metal door swung open, the overhead sensor light blinked on.
There were no college books.
Instead, the small unit was half-filled with equipment: a high-resolution flatbed scanner, several crates of blank cardstock, bottles of archival ink, and a corkboard covered in photographs. Rowan stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat as she looked at the corkboard.
There were pictures of her—walking out of her office, sitting in the café across the street, sleeping in their bed. But beside them were photographs of Julian Vance, his daily routes, the layout of his lower Manhattan brownstone, and a series of detailed architectural blueprints.
And pinned right in the center, next to a printed schedule of Vance’s security details, was a polaroid of David standing with a woman Rowan had never seen before—a woman wearing a silver pendant identical to one Rowan had found in David’s laundry bin a month ago.
A soft scrape of rubber on concrete echoed from the aisle behind her.
Rowan spun around, her heart hammering against her bruised ribs. Standing at the entrance of the unit was a man with a scarred eyebrow and a heavy wool coat, holding a silenced pistol down by his thigh.
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“Well, well,” the man rasped, his eyes gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light. “Boss said someone might come sniffing around. Didn't figure it’d be the girlfriend.”
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