He turned the screen toward you.
There you were.
Walking out of the hospital after your shift.
Scrubs under your coat.
Hair loose.
Tote bag on your shoulder.
Then another photo.
Your apartment building.
Then another.
A grainy image of your grandmother sitting near a window at St. Anne’s, wearing the lavender cardigan you had bought her last Christmas.
Your anger collapsed into something colder.
Something helpless.
“Who took those?” you whispered.
“The men who tried to kill Mr. Lujan.”
“Why?”
Elias looked at you for a long moment.
“Because they think he told you something before he left the hospital.”
You shook your head.
“He didn’t. He barely spoke.”
“That may not matter.”
You looked at the SUV again.
“Where is he?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to decide whether you want protection or pride.”
You almost hated him for saying it that way.
But the image of your grandmother’s face on that phone had already made the decision for you.
You picked up the money from the sidewalk, not because you wanted it, but because leaving $2,500 in cash outside your building in Chicago at dawn was the kind of foolishness only rich people could afford.
Then you looked at Elias.
“I’m not going alone.”
He nodded.
“You may call someone.”
You almost laughed.
There was no one.
Your fiancé, Gabriel, was dead. Your mother lived in Arizona and answered calls only when she needed money. Your father had disappeared when you were twelve. Your closest friend, Nina, had two kids, a night shift of her own, and a husband who hated drama unless it was on Netflix.
You had spent years becoming the person other people called in emergencies.
Now that the emergency was yours, your contact list felt painfully small.
“Take me to my grandmother first,” you said.
Elias paused.
“Mr. Lujan requested—”
“I don’t care what Mr. Lujan requested.”
The younger bodyguard near the SUV shifted.
You stepped toward Elias.
“If you know where she is, then so do they. I am not going anywhere until I see her.”
For a moment, Elias studied you.
Then he opened the rear door.
“Get in.”
You hated yourself for obeying.
But you got in.
The inside of the SUV smelled like leather, mint, and gun oil. Mateo Lujan was not there. Only tinted windows, a folded blanket, a bottle of water, and a silence that felt expensive.
You sat stiffly against the door while Elias climbed into the front passenger seat.
The SUV pulled away from the curb.
Your apartment disappeared behind you.
You pressed your phone between both hands and tried not to think about how easily a woman could vanish before most of Chicago had finished its first coffee.
The drive to Oak Park took twenty-three minutes.
You counted every one.
Elias made two calls during the ride, speaking in low, controlled sentences. He never said anything incriminating. Men like him probably learned language the way surgeons learned anatomy, knowing exactly where not to cut.
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