PART THREEChapter Thirty: A Hidden Motive
Eli had learned early that information came easier when you didn't ask for it.
People volunteered details when they felt safe—when they believed they were being seen, understood, mirrored. He had mastered the art of listening without seeming curious, of caring without appearing invested.
Lucia was cautious.
That made her useful.
They met the way they always did—by accident that wasn't really an accident. Outside the market. Near the bus stop. Once, under the shade of a tree across from the school gates.
Never too close.Never too long.Never enough to raise alarms.
"How's your mum today?" Eli asked one afternoon, his tone casual.
Lucia hesitated. "She's… resting."
Eli nodded, filing the word away. Resting meant sick. Sick meant vulnerable.
"Mine used to get like that," he said quietly. "Some days better, some worse."
Lucia glanced at him. "What happened to her?"
"She couldn't keep working," he replied. "Everything fell apart after that."
Lucia didn't answer, but something in her expression shifted—recognition, sympathy.
That was all Eli needed.
He never asked where Lucia lived.
Instead, he asked things like:
"Do you walk far to get home?""Is it hard taking care of someone alone?""Do you ever get scared leaving her by herself?"
Each question sounded harmless on its own. Together, they formed a map.
Lucia answered carefully—but not carefully enough.
"Not too far," she said once, then immediately regretted it."I don't leave her long," she said another time."We stay quiet," she added, unprompted.
Eli nodded each time, offering no reaction.
At night, he repeated those answers in his head.
Not far.Quiet.Just the two of them.
At home, Margret grew more uneasy.
Lucia spent longer pauses staring at the door before entering. She checked the windows twice. Sometimes three times. She flinched at footsteps in the hallway.
"You're talking to him more," Margret said one evening, her voice weak but sharp.
Lucia stiffened. "Not really."
Margret watched her carefully. "You're being watched when you talk to someone long enough."
Lucia snapped, too quickly, "He's not like that."
The words hung in the air.
Margret's chest tightened. "You don't know what 'like that' looks like," she whispered.
Lucia looked away.
Eli's father worked quietly.
He didn't ask questions either—he waited for answers to surface.
When Eli came home late, his father barely looked up. "Anything new?"
Eli shrugged. "She's still hiding. Still scared."
"Address?"
"Not yet."
His father nodded once. "Don't rush it."
Eli hesitated. "She trusts me."
His father finally looked at him. "Good. Trust makes people careless."
Eli said nothing.
He didn't feel guilty.
This wasn't personal. It never was.
One evening, Lucia made a mistake so small she didn't even realize it was one.
She walked with Eli one block longer than usual.
Just one.
She stopped herself before the corner, heart pounding. "I have to go."
Eli smiled gently. "Of course."
But he watched her turn.
Watched the direction.
Watched the building she glanced at before correcting herself.
That night, Eli replayed the moment over and over again.
The hesitation.The look.The fear.
He smiled to himself.
Margret woke from a nightmare gasping.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breath shallow, sweat cold on her skin. Something was wrong. She felt it deep in her bones, the same instinct that had told her to run years ago.
"Lucia," she whispered.
Lucia appeared instantly, eyes wide. "I'm here."
Margret studied her face, searching for cracks. "Promise me something."
Lucia swallowed. "I already promised."
"Again," Margret insisted. "Promise me you haven't let anyone get close enough to follow you."
Lucia hesitated.
Just long enough.
Margret closed her eyes.
Somewhere, beyond their thin walls, beyond the careful silence Margret had built around their lives, a line had been crossed.
Not loudly.Not violently.But deliberately.
Eli lay awake that same night, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the mental map he was building.
The rule had been spoken.
And rules, he knew, only existed to be broken.