---
Elara barely slept.
The words clung to her like thorns, catching on every attempt at rest:
"…yeah, they're here. I told you. But the journal—"
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Miles's door glowing faintly, heard the muted scrape of his voice through the thin walls. Her heartbeat never slowed.
When dawn finally came, it was a relief. At least she could move without fear of waking Cass.
Cass.
The thought of him twisted in her chest. He'd never believe her. Not without proof. Cass trusted Miles the way a drowning man trusted the rope thrown to him—blindly, desperately.
So Elara kept quiet, slipping from bed with the journal hugged tight to her chest.
---
Miles was already in the kitchen.
He leaned against the counter, hair damp from a shower, mug of coffee steaming in his hand. He looked maddeningly ordinary, as though he hadn't whispered betrayal into the phone hours earlier.
"Early bird," he said, voice warm, easy. "Didn't think you'd be up before Cass."
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to sit at the table, placing the journal carefully in her lap, out of sight.
"Couldn't sleep," she said.
His eyes flicked toward her, sharp just for a second before the grin smoothed over it. "Yeah. You never were good at shutting your brain off."
The words unsettled her—he remembered that about her. A detail from years ago, spoken like a weapon now.
She didn't answer. Instead, she opened one of her father's maps, tracing the faded lines with her finger while keeping her gaze low.
But she felt him watching her.
---
By the time Cass stumbled out of the spare room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Miles had transformed again. The perfect host. Bacon already sizzling in the pan. Plates set out. The apartment humming with the illusion of safety.
Cass grinned at him like a kid at Christmas. "Man, you're spoiling us."
"Just keeping you alive," Miles replied, easy as breathing.
Elara's stomach turned.
---
That day, while Cass pored over their father's journal at the table, Miles busied himself with errands—at least that's what he called them. Slipping out for groceries, disappearing to the corner store for cigarettes, vanishing down the block with a muttered excuse about rent.
Each absence stretched too long. Each return came with an edge of something Elara couldn't name—like he'd been somewhere else entirely.
Cass never noticed. He was lost in notes and numbers, muttering about coordinates, sketching patterns across scrap paper.
But Elara noticed.
Every movement.
Every glance.
Every time Miles's phone buzzed and he stepped away, speaking too softly for her to hear.
---
She started watching.
When Miles left his jacket slung over the back of a chair, she slipped a hand into the pocket and found a set of keys that didn't belong to the apartment. Old, tarnished. One of them long and narrow, like for a padlock.
When he left his boots by the door, she knelt and checked the soles. Mud clung to the treads, fresh and thick—too much for the dry sidewalks outside.
When he left his phone charging on the counter, she edged closer, heart hammering. The screen glowed with a lock screen: 4:09 p.m. A text banner flashing before it dimmed.
Unknown Number: Update?
Her breath caught. She snatched her hand back before Miles walked in, but her heart wouldn't stop racing.
Proof. It was thin, fragile, but it was there.
---
That night, Elara pretended to sleep.
She lay curled on the futon while Cass snored softly beside her, his arm sprawled across the journal. The apartment creaked with silence.
At 1:12 a.m., she heard the click of Miles's door opening.
Her body went rigid.
Soft footsteps padded across the floor. The front door opening, closing with a whisper of sound.
Elara sat up, heart hammering. She glanced at Cass—out cold.
She stood, bare feet cold against the floor, and crept to the window.
Below, in the pool of yellow streetlight, Miles strode quickly down the block, phone pressed to his ear. He didn't look back.
Elara pressed a hand against the glass, her breath fogging the pane.
He was meeting someone. She knew it.
---
The next morning, Cass was glowing.
"I think I cracked it," he said, waving a page of scrawled coordinates. His eyes were alight, his grin boyish. "Dad wasn't just marking locations. He was building a path. A trail."
Elara forced a smile, though her chest felt tight.
Miles leaned over Cass's shoulder, his interest sharp. "Where's it lead?"
"Still piecing it together," Cass said. "But it's not just Bellwick. It's further. A lot further."
Miles's expression was unreadable for a flicker before his grin returned. "Then we'd better get you two ready to travel."
Elara's hand curled into a fist beneath the table. The way he said it—we'd—as though he was already part of the journey. As though he had a right to it.
---
The rest of the day, she gathered more.
When Cass wasn't looking, she checked the mud on Miles's boots again. Fresh. Always fresh, as though he walked places far beyond the block.
She rifled his desk when he ran to the store, her heart thundering as she found a slip of paper tucked in a drawer. Numbers scrawled in a messy hand. Phone numbers. No names.
And in the bottom of the drawer, a folded scrap of paper.
A single word written across it in black ink: VEIL.
Elara froze, her blood running cold.
She shoved it back into place before the door rattled open and Miles called out, "Anyone want coffee?"
Her hands shook for the rest of the afternoon.
---
That night, as Cass traced lines across maps, Elara sat silent, her thoughts a storm.
She had proof now. Not enough for Cass, not yet, but enough for her.
Miles wasn't just careless. He wasn't just suspicious.
He was tied to them. To the people chasing them.
To Veil.
And he was sitting across the room, laughing with Cass, flipping through their father's notes as though he belonged there.
Elara clutched the journal to her chest, her heart pounding with a truth she couldn't yet speak.
She would wait. She would gather more.
Because when the time came to confront him—and to make Cass believe—she would need more than suspicion.
She would need certainty.
---