Chapter 4 - The Ghost Address
The secure suite attached to Roman’s top-floor office was less of a living space and more of a luxury bunker, featuring reinforced window glass, a small kitchenette stocked with bottled water and simple provisions, and a narrow cot made up with crisp gray linens. Gideon had dropped off a heavy canvas duffel bag containing a few changes of plain clothes and my worn leather handbag before retreating to the security hub downstairs. I sat on the edge of the cot, staring down at a faded paper photograph Gideon had slid out of a manila folder just minutes before. It showed a modest, wood-frame farmhouse with peeling white paint and a rusted metal roof, standing alone beneath a gray, overcast sky against a backdrop of dense pine trees.
The door clicked open, and Roman stepped into the suite, carrying two mugs of black coffee. He extended one toward me, his dark eyes taking in my tense posture before he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. "Recognize it?" he asked quietly.
I took the mug, letting the warmth seep into my cold fingers, though I didn't drink. " Butler County," I said, the words tasting heavy and metallic. "We lived there for three months before the smoke started coming through the floorboards in the middle of the night. Samuel told me it was just an electrical fault, but I saw the bullet holes in the porch railing the next morning."
"It wasn't an electrical fault," Roman said, taking a slow sip from his own mug while keeping his gaze locked on mine. "A cleanup crew from the Valeri syndicate torched that house three hours after you and Samuel cleared out. They were looking for the exact parcel of land listed in the back of the ledger I showed you downstairs. A five-acre tract of timber out past the county line with a decommissioned telegraph relay station buried underneath it."
I looked up sharply, the steam from the coffee curling between us in the dim light of the suite. "A telegraph station? Samuel never mentioned any land. He always said we were just passing through, waiting for a train that never came."
"He lied to keep you breathing," Roman replied without hesitation, his tone devoid of judgment. "Men like Vane didn't plant roots unless they were setting a trap or hiding a vault. But according to the property tax records updated last week, someone just paid the back taxes on that Butler County parcel using a cashier's check drawn from a local credit union in your maiden name. That means someone knows you're alive, Norah, and they're using your old name to draw us out."
The realization settled over me like a physical weight, cold and inescapable. All these years, I had believed I was safe, that the quiet life I had built working late shifts in upscale lounges and renting a tiny studio apartment was earned through my own anonymity. But the past wasn't something you could outrun; it was a shadow tethered to your heels, waiting for the right moment to pull you back under. I set the coffee mug down on the small nightstand, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to keep them steady. I looked up at Roman, seeing the hard, unyielding determination etched into his features—the same determination that had made him a legend in the city's dark corridors.
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"If they paid the taxes, they're waiting for someone to show up," I said, my voice steadying as the fear began to curdle into a grim resolve. "They're waiting for me, or for someone looking for Samuel."
"They're waiting for both of us," Roman corrected, pushing off the doorframe and setting his mug down beside mine. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy steel ring holding a single brass key and a key fob. "Which is why we aren't going to wait for them to find us here. We drive out to Butler County tonight, before the weather closes the mountain passes."
