Page 71 of Only the Hunter

And now my reason for seeing this through to the end. Maybe she wasn’t murdered. Maybe it was hypothermia. Maybe she was sick and she didn’t receive proper medical care. Maybe the disposal of her body was more about protecting a troubled facility than about my case. But the guilty party, whoever they are, put her here. No matter how she died, they’re responsible for her death. And they belong behind bars.

I turn off the water and wrap a towel around me. Steam fogs the mirror. I wipe a hand across the glass, but my reflection stays blurred at the edges. Rivulets snake downward, distorting my face.

I look like someone who found a body today.

I should have found her sooner.

The thought settles heavy, like a stone lodged beneath my sternum—too deep to dislodge, with sharp, unforgiving edges.

When I emerge from the bedroom, hair damp and uncombed, Gabe is at the desk. He’s set out tea, bread, cheese, a small plate of fruit—arranged with the same precision he uses for everything in life.

Setting out food is such a domestic gesture that for a second, I don’t know what to do with it. No one takes care of me like this.

“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up from his phone.

“No.”

But I notice the care and appreciate it. The fact that he thought of it. That he didn’t ask first—just did it.

Despite the cold, a hint of warmth surfaces at the edges of that stone.

Outside, the city has gone fully dark, streetlights reflecting in long smears across the wet pavement below, the lake no more than a black expanse broken by the occasional light from a passing boat. Someone once told me the darkest hour is just before dawn. I took a thirty-minute shower and nothing feels dawn-adjacent. Then again, I’ve never trusted phrases meant to reassure.

My phone sits plugged in on the writing desk. “You up for a walk?”

“Your hair’s wet.”

I glance at him. He’s not looking at me, but his mouth is tight—that particular brand of concern that reminds me of all the times he tried to stop me from doing something reckless when we were younger.

Except I’m not a kid left at home with her older brother anymore.

And he’s noticing things he didn’t used to.

“I’ll wear a cap.”

He doesn’t question my need for fresh air, simply dons his boots, coat, scarf, and mittens. I also dress warmly. At the last minute, right before exiting the room, I grab my phone and slip it into my pocket.

I haven’t wanted to check my messages since the train. But I let my NGO contacts know they need to meet me. If they don’t respond, my next step will be to share photos of Lina. Surely when faced with photographs of the victim someone will talk.

Outside the hotel, the air bites at my damp hair despite the cap. The cold feels intentional—like it’s trying to wake me up or punish me. I point right, toward the curve of the lake and the espresso bar I noticed earlier.

The sidewalks are busy without being crowded. Couples. Tourists. Locals moving with purpose. Life continuing at the pace of happy, smiling, normalcy.

I’m aware of Gabe beside me. His stride matches mine without effort. He scans reflections in shop windows, not staring long enough to be obvious.

I didn’t notice it at first.

The sense of being seen comes gradually. A pressure wedged between my shoulder blades. The kind I’ve felt before, in courtrooms and hallways, when someone is observing with specific interest.

I tell myself it’s nothing.

The espresso bar comes into view—warm light spilling onto the pavement, the promise of something bitter and grounding. I slow, fishing my phone from my pocket.

“Order for me?” Gabe asks. “Whatever you’re having.”

His tone is off. Different.

“Evie,” he says, voice lower, gaze elsewhere, “Go inside. Sit where you can see the door.”