At exactly 9:45 a.m., Clara Delevon stepped out of the black SUV in front of Westbridge Station.
The morning was unusually cold.
Passengers hurried through the station entrance, dragging suitcases and checking their phones. Trains arrived and departed according to schedule, while announcements echoed through the crowded hall.
Everything looked ordinary.
Yet Clara couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
Arthur walked beside her, his eyes quietly scanning their surroundings.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Clara adjusted the strap of her handbag.
"I've been waiting three years for this moment. I don't think I'll feel all right until I see him."
Arthur took her hand.
"Remember, we don't know who sent those messages. Don't follow anyone without making sure we know where we're going."
"I know."
"And if anything feels wrong—"
"Arthur."
He stopped.
Clara gave him a small, determined smile.
