Nate
Jackson called twenty-three hours later—neither in a rush nor unnecessarily delayed. His timing was precise, arriving exactly as expected.
I answered on the first ring, not wanting to waste a moment.
"Talk," I instructed.
"I've got her trail," Jackson reported.
I pulled my laptop closer and told him to start from the beginning.
"She left Chicago in her own vehicle," Jackson began. "Drove directly to O'Hare. Long-term parking. Cash payment. No return booked."
That made sense to me.
He continued, "Flight records show Chicago to Dallas. Two-hour layover. Second ticket purchased separately—Dallas to Boise. Different airline."
I nodded in agreement.
"Smart," I said.
Jackson explained further, "She didn't link the bookings. Different payment methods. No checked luggage. No phone activity after Boise."
"Rental?" I asked.
"Yes. Picked up at the airport. Returned next morning in Stanley."
"Stanley," I repeated.
"Idaho. Population under five hundred. Remote. Limited cell coverage. No CCTV outside main road."
I pictured the place: trees, distance, and quiet.
"Connection?" I queried.
"University friend," Jackson replied. "They stopped communicating two years ago. No digital contact after that."
"But she went there anyway."
"Yes."
"Address?" I pressed.
Jackson sent the coordinates.
The details began to emerge on my screen. Her house was situated near the water, in an area with sparse development. Long roads stretched between isolated properties, reinforcing the sense of seclusion. She hadn't settled there by chance; her choice was deliberate. She sought invisibility.
Jackson explained, "She stayed with the friend initially." For the first three weeks, there was no financial activity. After that, only modest cash purchases were recorded: clothing, bedding, and meals at a local diner.
He paused, then continued, "Then nothing for almost six months." She had gone dark. She kept a low profile.
When asked about income, Jackson answered, "Started appearing under a different name eight months later. Art sales. Online platform. Clean separation from her legal identity." This development was unexpected.
"She's a painter?" I queried.
"Yes."
I made a note of it.
Jackson continued, "She rented first. Bought the property eighteen months later. One-bedroom house. Separate studio. Cash-heavy transaction. No mortgage." She was building a new life.
Jackson provided further information: "No ties back to Chicago. No contact with known associates. No social media. No public records beyond property." She had been efficient in cutting off her past.
"Current location confirmed?" I asked.
"Yes." The coordinates flashed again: Stanley, Idaho.
Jackson concluded, "That's as clean an exit as I've seen in a while."
I studied the map in front of me: the distances to airports, the limited access roads, and the low population. She hadn't merely left—she had disappeared.
"Send the full packet," I said.
"It's already in your inbox."
After disconnecting, I lingered over the address, letting its significance settle in. The decision made, I forwarded the information onwards, attaching the relevant details in a single message—one attachment, nothing more. Sometimes, that is all it takes to change everything.
Somewhere, Daniel received the coordinates. With that, she became findable, her careful disappearance undone by a few digital steps.
Ten minutes later, his reply arrived. The response was short and direct, exhibiting the kind of professional confidence that money brings.
Excellent.
I appreciate the speed.
I'll transfer the remaining balance now.
There was a pause, then another request followed.
I'd also like visual confirmation.
Photos. Current.
I'm willing to compensate for travel and time.
I stared at the screen, noting that this was beyond the original agreement. Yet, it was a premium request, and the compensation justified the effort. I ran a quick calculation: flights, rental, two or three nights.
Daniel's offer was sufficient, so I replied with updated terms.
On-site confirmation carries an additional fee.
Travel expenses are billed separately.
His answer was immediate.
That's fine.
Send your rates.
That settled it.
Airports offer an ideal setting for vanishing. People are always on the move, absorbed by their devices, and faces easily fade from memory unless something draws attention to them.
Sitting in the first-class lounge with a cup of black coffee, I keep my back against the wall. Instead of watching people openly, I observe their reflections in the glass, letting me quietly keep an eye on things without being noticed.
Two businessmen are arguing quietly over spreadsheets. Close to the windows, a woman walks back and forth, deeply engaged in a phone conversation. Not far away, a couple dressed in matching jackets sits side by side, looking rather tired.
No one is of importance to me.
I reserved my ticket under an alternate identity I use for such occasions. Choose a window seat, keep layovers to a minimum, and pack only carry-on luggage.
Daniel wired the additional fee while I was still on the tarmac.
He didn't negotiate.
That tells me everything I need to know.
I get on the plane early, find my seat, and relax. As we take off, I close my eyes—not out of exhaustion, but to conserve energy. I prefer not to spend energy on things that don't need my focus.
When we touch down in Boise, I've already mapped out our route and have the rental confirmation ready to go.
Stanley is located approximately two hours to the northeast. The region features a low population density and extensive areas with minimal development.
Upon arrival, I collect the rental—a black Ford Ranger 4x4. Setting out from the lot, the tranquil drive allows me to consider my upcoming plans.
Towering pine forests stretch beneath a vast sky, with roads winding aimlessly across the landscape. My phone's signal fades in and out, GPS falters, so I rely on offline maps and continue my journey.
She made a deliberate choice in selecting this location. That fact stands out, though its significance hasn't become clear to me yet.
By the time Stanley appears, it's late afternoon. The town is exactly what Jackson described — small, spread out, quiet in a way cities never are. A handful of buildings clustered near the main road. A diner. A gas station. A general store.
No crowds.
No cameras worth mentioning.
I don't drive past her house.
Not yet.
First rule: establish your own position before studying anyone else's.
The cabin I reserved is located just beyond the town limits, nestled among the trees with a glimpse of the lake visible through the foliage. It offers privacy, is well-maintained, and was prepaid—no inquiries required.
I selected this location due to its proximity. It is sufficiently close for observation, yet distant enough to remain inconspicuous.
I bring my bag indoors and quickly check the doors, windows, and any hidden areas; everything is in order. Next, I place my laptop on the kitchen table, connect to a secure hotspot, and open the map once more.
Her residence is situated less than one mile from here.
The property includes a private lake with a deck that connects to the house, nestled in a wooded area. It offers one bedroom, a separate studio, a large open-plan kitchen and living space, and an extended driveway. Its location is relatively secluded, with only a few neighbouring properties.
She did not simply disappear.
She established herself in the area.
I log the surrounding roads. Walking paths. Lines of sight. The diner Tif favours. The small shop Wren visited when she first arrived.
Before I even catch sight of her, patterns begin to emerge.
That's how this works.
I sent Daniel a brief update.
On-site. Will confirm within twenty-four hours.
He replies almost immediately.
Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.
I don't respond.
Discretion is already included in the price.
I close the laptop and sit back in the chair, staring out through the window at the trees swaying lightly in the breeze.
The routine never changes. Arrive, evaluate, observe, record, and leave. Right now, she exists only as data—simply a set of coordinates and a task to complete. Tomorrow, I will see her for myself.