The screens multiply like some kind of digital hydra—one becomes three becomes six—and I'm watching my entire fake life reduce to lines of code.

Ezra's office is exactly what I'd expect from a man who bought a mountain to hide on: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking nothing but wilderness, minimalist furniture that probably costs more than a car, and enough computing power to launch a satellite. Or track a ghost.

Which is apparently what I am now.

"This one monitors social media," he says, pointing to a screen on the left. His voice has shifted into something clipped and professional, like he's giving a boardroom presentation instead of teaching me how to surveil my own existence. "Facial recognition software cross-references any photos tagged within a hundred-mile radius. If someone posts a picture of you, we'll know within minutes."

"That's deeply unsettling."

"That's survival." He leans past me to tap another screen, and suddenly I'm drowning in cedar and coffee and the particular heat that comes from another person invading your space. "This one tracks credit card usage, background checks, anyone running searches on your name—either of them."

I should step back. Create distance. I don't.

"And this?" I gesture to the center monitor, which is scrolling through what looks like encrypted data.

"That's the fun one." There's a hint of dark satisfaction in his voice. "That's every database Garrett might use to find you. DMV records, employment verification, utility hookups. I've seeded them all with false positives—women who match your general description in cities across the country. If he's looking, he'll find dozens of you."

"You did all this since yesterday?"

"I don't sleep much."

I glance at him. There are shadows under his eyes that confirm it, and something else—a tightness around his mouth that suggests he's been living on coffee and adrenaline for longer than twenty-four hours. Probably longer than I've known him.

"Why?" The question comes out softer than I intend.

He straightens, putting a few inches between us that feel like miles. "Because I can. Because someone should." A pause. "Because you asked me to."

The honesty in that last part does something dangerous to my chest.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to his chair. "You need to learn how to use this."

"Ezra, I can barely work a smartphone—"

"You rebuilt a transmission last week. You can handle this."

It's not a compliment exactly, more a statement of fact, but something warm unfurls in my stomach anyway. I sink into the chair—expensive leather that probably cost more than my first car—and he leans over me, one hand braced on the desk, the other reaching for the keyboard.

The proximity is suffocating.

"Here." His fingers brush mine as he guides my hand to the mouse. "Click this. It'll show you the alert log."

I click. A window opens displaying a list of searches, timestamps, IP addresses. It's empty except for a single entry from this morning.

"That's me," he says. "Testing the system."

His hand is still covering mine. I can feel the calluses on his palm—unexpected on a tech billionaire—and the heat of his skin through my own. My pulse kicks up, loud enough that I'm sure he can hear it.

"The software flags anything suspicious," he continues, either oblivious to my spiraling or choosing to ignore it. "You set the parameters here. Keywords, locations, frequency thresholds."

"What counts as suspicious?"

"Anyone searching for Sloane Whitmore in conjunction with your current location. Anyone running facial recognition software on photos from Prospect. Background check companies. Private investigators." His voice darkens on that last one. "They're coming, you know. It's not a matter of if."

"I know."

"And when they do—"

"I'll run." The words taste bitter. "That's what I'm good at, right? Running."

His hand tightens over mine. "Or you could stay."

I turn to look at him, which is a mistake because he's right there, close enough that I can see the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples, the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pupils dilate when our eyes meet.

"Ezra—"

"I bought this town because I needed to disappear." The words come out rough, like he's dragging them from somewhere deep. "After the congressional hearing. After they showed me screenshots of my software tracking journalists in Belarus, activists in Hong Kong, a teenager in Pakistan who just wanted to organize a protest."

He pulls back, running his hand through his hair in that gesture I'm starting to recognize as distress.

"They asked me if I felt responsible for their deaths. On national television, with their families in the gallery behind me." His laugh is hollow. "I said I'd created the software for legitimate security purposes. That I couldn't control how it was used after it was sold. That I deeply regretted any loss of life."

"Corporate speak."

"Cowardice." He turns to face me fully, and the raw pain in his expression makes my breath catch. "I knew. Maybe not the specifics, but I knew the kind of people buying my software. I knew what they'd use it for. And I sold it anyway because the money was good and the technology was brilliant and I told myself I was just the creator, not the executioner."

I should say something comforting. Something about how he couldn't have known, how it wasn't his fault. But I've spent too many years choking on pretty lies.

"So you bought a mountain."

"So I bought a mountain." He leans against the desk, close enough that his knee brushes my thigh. "Liquidated everything, paid out my investors, and vanished. Thought if I could just... stop. Stop creating, stop innovating, stop putting tools in the hands of people who'd use them to hurt others."

"Did it work?"

"No." The word is flat. "Because the software's still out there. Still being used. Still tracking people who don't deserve to be found." His eyes lock on mine. "So when you showed up in coveralls with oil under your nails and fear in your eyes, lying about who you were... yeah, I recognized you. And yeah, I let you stay anyway."

"Why?"

"Because fuck them." There's heat in his voice now, something fierce and protective that makes my stomach flip. "Fuck Garrett and fuck my old investors and fuck everyone who thinks they own people. You wanted to disappear? Fine. I'll help you disappear so thoroughly they'll never find you."

"That's not—" I stand up, needing space, needing air, needing something other than the intensity radiating off him. "You can't just decide that. You don't even know me."

"I know you're running from a brother who sees you as property. I know you faked your own death rather than marry whoever they'd picked for you. I know you're good with your hands and terrible at lying and you take your coffee black with enough sugar to cancel out the bitter." He moves closer. "I know you're scared, and you should be, but you're also stubborn enough to stay anyway."

"Stubborn or stupid?"

"Both, probably." His mouth quirks. "I recognize the combination."

We're standing too close again. When did that happen? I can feel the heat coming off him, can smell cedar and dark roast and something underneath that's just him. My hands are shaking.

"Ezra." It comes out as barely a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"This is a bad idea."

"Probably."

But neither of us moves.

His eyes drop to my mouth. I watch it happen, watch the way his breathing changes, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.

I should step back. I should make a joke, deflect with sarcasm, remind us both that I'm a mess and he's my landlord and nothing about this is appropriate or safe or sane.

Instead, I sway forward.

Just an inch. Just enough that the air between us feels charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.

His hand comes up, fingers curving around my jaw with devastating gentleness. His thumb brushes my cheekbone and I forget how to breathe.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice rough.

I should. God, I should.

His forehead touches mine. We're sharing air now, sharing space, sharing this moment that feels suspended outside of time. I can feel his breath on my lips, can feel the tension vibrating through his body as he holds himself still.

"Sloane." My name sounds like a prayer. Like a curse.

I tilt my face up.

His mouth is an inch from mine. Half an inch. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the want of him, the way this would feel to just—

Reality crashes back.

I jerk away so fast I nearly trip over the chair.

"I can't." The words come out strangled. "We can't."

He doesn't move, doesn't drop his hand even though I'm no longer there to touch. "Why not?"

"Because people like us don't get this." I gesture between us, at the space that feels like it's still crackling with electricity. "People like us ruin everything we touch. You said it yourself—your software killed people. My family destroys everything in its path. We're disasters, Ezra. And disasters don't get to have—"

I can't finish the sentence. Don't want to name what this is, what it could be.

"So what?" His voice is hard now, challenging. "We just... don't? Pretend there's nothing here?"

"There can't be anything here." I'm backing toward the door, putting distance between us like that'll help. "I'm hiding from my brother who wants to drag me back to a life I'd rather die than live. You're hiding from guilt that's eating you alive. Neither of us is in any position to—"

"To what? Feel something?" He laughs, sharp and bitter. "Too late, sweetheart. That ship has sailed."

The endearment hits me like a physical blow. I grab the door handle like a lifeline.

"I should go."

"Sloane—"

"Thank you. For the system. For the help." My voice sounds mechanical even to my own ears. "I'll figure out how to use it."

"That's not—" He stops, jaw working like he's swallowing words that want to escape. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled. "The login credentials are on the desk. Change the password to something only you know. Check it twice a day, minimum."

"Okay."

"And Sloane?"

I pause, hand on the door, unable to look back at him.

"When they come—and they will come—you don't have to run. Not this time."

I don't answer. Can't answer. Just slip through the door and down the stairs and out into the mountain air that suddenly feels too thin to breathe.

My hands are still shaking when I get back to the garage apartment.

I make it to the bathroom before my knees give out, sinking down onto the cold tile and pressing my palms against my eyes. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my face, still smell cedar and coffee, still feel the heat of him so close I could have—

But I didn't.

I didn't, because I'm not that selfish. Because dragging Ezra into my mess isn't fair when he's already drowning in his own. Because the last thing either of us needs is another complication, another vulnerability, another way for the world to hurt us.

My phone buzzes. For one insane moment I think it's him, but it's just a notification. A new app has been installed.

I open it.

The interface is clean, simple, clearly designed for someone who isn't a tech genius. There's a green indicator at the top that says "All Clear" and a list of monitoring parameters below it. At the bottom, a single line of text:

You're not alone in this. —E

I stare at it until my vision blurs.

Then I do something I haven't done since I walked away from my old life: I let myself cry. Not pretty tears, not the delicate dabbing of eyes that I was taught in etiquette classes. Ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body and leave me hollow.

When I'm done, I wash my face and change the password like he told me to. Set the monitoring parameters. Enable all the alerts.

Then I pull up the browser and do something incredibly stupid.

I search for the congressional hearing he mentioned.

It takes less than a minute to find. The video is grainy but clear enough: Ezra in a suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, sitting at a table facing a panel of senators who look like they want his head on a spike. Behind him, the gallery is full of people holding photographs.

The dead, I realize. They're holding photos of the people killed by his software.

I watch him maintain his composure as they grill him. Watch him give those corporate non-answers he described. Watch the exact moment something breaks behind his eyes when a senator asks if he thinks $47 million was worth a sixteen-year-old's life.

He doesn't answer that one. Just sits there, jaw tight, while the gallery erupts.

The video ends with him walking out through a crowd of protesters. Someone throws something—I can't tell what—and it hits him in the shoulder. He doesn't even flinch.

I close the laptop.

Now I understand why he bought a mountain. Why he looks at me like he sees a kindred spirit. Why he's so determined to help me disappear.

We're both running from the weight of our names.

My phone buzzes again. Another notification from the monitoring app.

Alert: Search detected
Parameters: "Sloane Whitmore" + "body never recovered"
Location: New York, NY
IP registered to: Whitmore Industries

I stare at the screen, watching as more alerts pop up. Someone—probably Garrett—is ramping up the search. Different databases, different search terms, all originating from the same place.

He's not going to stop.

The realization settles in my gut like a stone. My brother has never lost anything in his life, and he's not about to start with me. Five million dollars is just the opening bid. He'll throw the entire Whitmore fortune at this if he has to.

Another buzz. This time it's a text from an unknown number:

Check the news. —Mae

I pull up the local station's website and my blood turns to ice.

There's Garrett, giving another interview. But this time he's not in a studio. He's standing in front of what looks like a small-town sheriff's office, his expression perfectly calibrated to convey concerned determination.

"I'm offering an additional two million dollars," he's saying, "to anyone who can provide information about my sister's whereabouts. Sloane was troubled, struggling with depression. We just want to bring her home safely."

The lies roll off his tongue like honey.

The reporter asks where he's searching, and his smile is camera-ready.

"We have reason to believe she may have relocated to a small mountain community. Somewhere she could hide. But Sloane needs help, and I won't stop until I find her."

The screen cuts to a map with a highlighted region.

A region that includes Prospect.

My phone rings. Ezra.

I answer without thinking.

"How close is he?" My voice doesn't shake. Small victories.

"Close enough." There's something dark in his tone. "But not close enough to find you. Not yet."

"He's narrowing the search grid."

"I know. I'm watching." A pause. "Come back to the house."

"Ezra—"

"Come back to the house, Sloane. We need to talk about what happens when he gets here."

When, not if.

I look around the garage apartment—my sanctuary, my escape, my attempt at a normal life. Four walls and a hot plate and the first real peace I've had in years.

All of it about to come crashing down.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I say, and hang up before he can hear the fear in my voice.

Because Garrett is coming.

And this time, I'm not sure running will be enough.