Chapter 26: The Lead
Greta Kim's Instagram account was a goldmine.
I'd found her through three degrees of separation from Candace Stone—a tagged photo from a party two years ago, then a comment thread that mentioned "C" with affection, then a dedicated deep-dive into her posting history.
The breakthrough came at 2 AM on a Tuesday. A photo from six months ago, taken at a rooftop bar with the LA skyline glittering in the background. Caption: Missing my east coast crew. Especially you, C.
The comments were revealing.
"How is she doing?" "She's healing. Taking it day by day." "Tell her we miss her." "I'll pass it along."
Candace was alive. Candace was in contact with Greta. Candace was in LA.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, memorizing every detail. The bar's location tags, the friends who'd commented, the careful way everyone avoided using Candace's full name.
She'd rebuilt herself. New name, new life, new coast. Smart. Joe would have trouble finding her even if he tried.
But I wasn't Joe. I had different tools, different motivations, and a very good reason to make contact.
Creating the fake profile took two hours.
I borrowed photos from an obscure photographer's portfolio—faces generic enough to pass casual inspection, not specific enough to reverse-image-search easily. Built a history of vague posts about coffee, books, the kind of content that suggested a real person without providing identifying details.
The message to Greta took longer to compose. Every word had to strike the right balance—friendly enough to not seem threatening, specific enough to prove legitimacy, vague enough to not reveal too much.
Hi Greta—this is going to sound strange, but I'm trying to reconnect with an old friend. Candace Stone? We knew each other from a writing group in Brooklyn, years ago. I heard she moved out west and is doing well. Would love to catch up with her if you have any way to pass along my info. Hope you're well.
I sent it at 9 AM, when Greta's posting history suggested she'd be awake and checking her phone.
Then I waited.
The response came four hours later.
I don't give out people's contact info to strangers. How do I know you are who you say you are?
Fair. Smart, even. Greta was protecting her friend—exactly what Candace needed.
I typed back carefully.
Totally understand. I met Candace through the Greenpoint Writers Collective. She was working on a novel about family secrets? We lost touch when she left the city suddenly. Just wanted to make sure she's okay. No pressure on the contact info—if you could just let her know I'm thinking about her, that would be enough.
The details were pulled from Candace's old social media—posts about her writing, her neighborhood, the groups she'd been part of. Enough specificity to seem genuine, not so much that it felt researched.
The wait stretched into the afternoon.
At 4:17 PM, Greta's reply arrived.
Okay. Yes, she moved to LA. She doesn't use her real name online anymore—some bad stuff happened in New York. I can't give you her number but I can tell her you reached out. What's your name?
Bad stuff happened in New York.
The confirmation hit like a physical weight. Candace had fled Joe. She knew what he was. And she'd been scared enough to completely reinvent herself.
I sent back: Just tell her an old friend from the collective is thinking of her. She'll know who it is.
Vague. Mysterious. The kind of thing that might make Candace curious enough to reach out on her own.
Or paranoid enough to run further.
I was gambling. But the alternative was no contact at all.
Greta's final message came an hour later.
I'll pass it along. She's talked about maybe making things right someday—thinks about it a lot. Don't know if she'll respond, but I'll try. Take care.
Making things right.
The phrase echoed in my mind.
Candace wanted revenge. Or justice. Or closure—some version of confronting what Joe had done to her. She'd been living with it for two years, rebuilding herself piece by piece, but the wound was still there.
She might be an ally. She might be a weapon.
Either way, she was the key.
Back at my apartment, I spread a map on the floor.
Physical map, bought from a bookstore. I drew lines in red marker: New York to Los Angeles. Candace's escape route. Joe's hunting ground versus Candace's sanctuary.
Then I added the other elements. Beck's apartment. Joe's building. Peach's Upper East Side address. Mooney's Rare Books.
The geometry of predators and prey.
I photographed everything for my Memory Palace—each line, each connection, each calculation. Then I burned the map in the kitchen sink, watching the paper curl and blacken until only ash remained.
Evidence discipline. Nothing physical that could link back to me.
The ash went down the drain with running water. I scrubbed the sink until no trace remained.
LA was expensive.
I researched flights, trains, buses—every option that might get me across the country without destroying my remaining funds. The cheapest bus took three days each way, which meant nearly a week away from New York.
A week during which Joe could escalate. A week during which Peach might push too hard. A week during which Beck could fall deeper into the trap.
The timing was impossible.
But Candace was alive. Candace knew Joe's secrets. Candace wanted to "make things right."
I stared at the bus fare calculator, weighing costs against potential gains.
Before I could decide, my phone buzzed with a surveillance alert I'd set up weeks ago.
Joe's location had shifted. He wasn't at his apartment, wasn't at Mooney's, wasn't anywhere near Beck's neighborhood.
He was on the Upper East Side.
Near Peach's building.
Fuck.
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