CHAPTER 37: THREE DAYS: ON THE RUN

The elevator chimed softly as Lyra stepped out into the quiet hallway. Warm light spilled from sconces along the pale gray walls, catching on the muted gold numbers of each door. At the far end, a tall figure waited—dark coat draped over shoulders, charcoal suit precise even at this late hour. Asher.

Her breath hitched. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the lines of his black coat and tailored suit making him look every bit the CEO he was, but his eyes softened the moment they met hers.

"Lyra." His voice was low, steady.

She quickened her pace until she reached him. Before a single word could leave her lips, he opened his arms, and she fell against him. The scent of crisp linen and faint cologne wrapped around her as he held her close. For a long while neither spoke. The weight she’d carried all day slowly bled away in his embrace.

When she finally drew back, he rested one palm on her shoulder. "Let’s go inside," he said quietly.

Inside the apartment, soft amber light greeted them. The space was neat and warm—cream walls, pale oak floors, and the faint fragrance of lavender from the diffuser by the window. Asher helped her slip off her shoes, his movements unhurried, almost careful, before guiding her toward the living room.

"Have you eaten?" he asked, shrugging off his coat and setting it across the back of the couch.

"The producer treated us to dinner," she said, lowering herself onto the sofa. "But I... couldn’t eat."

A small, comforting smile tugged at his lips. He removed his suit jacket, laid it beside the coat, then deftly unfastened his cufflinks. The quiet click of metal against wood echoed in the calm room. Rolling his sleeves to his elbows, he stepped closer.

"Go freshen up," he said. "I’ll make something. I haven’t eaten either."

"You don’t have to—"

"Lyra." His gaze held hers, gentle but firm. "Go."

She disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, the sound of running water soon following.

Asher moved to the kitchen. Cooking wasn’t his strength, but he managed a simple dinner—pan-fried noodles with vegetables and a light soup. When Lyra returned in a fresh sweater and loose pants, she insisted on setting the table.

They ate quietly at first. Then he began asking about her upcoming debut—recording sessions, the producer’s feedback, and what the label expected. Her eyes lit with excitement as she answered, voice rising with every detail.

Asher listened, smiling when she laughed, nodding when she spoke of the long hours.

Lyra never noticed the way Asher’s gaze dimmed as she spoke. To him, she was only like Adia in appearance and habit, a reflection that stirred old memories he could never fully leave behind—but beyond those things, they were different. Still, he steadied himself with a silent promise: he would stay with Lyra until he found her.

——•——

Adrian checked into a high-end hotel near the airport, the kind with silent elevators, marble floors that gleamed like water, and a lobby scented faintly of cedar. His outfit which was bought that morning, when he arrived in Los Angeles, smelled of crisp linen.

He tossed his duffel onto the king-size bed and sat at the edge, new phone in hand.

For the hundredth time in three and a half days, he dialed Sierra’s number.

No answer.

Again.

His jaw locked until it hurt. A string of curses tore out of him, low at first, then harsh enough to bounce off the pristine walls. He slammed his fist into the paneled wall—hard enough to sting but not leave a mark—then raked both hands through his hair, dragging them down over his face then to his head then back to his face. He stayed there, elbows on his knees, breathing like he’d run a mile.

Finally, he lowered the phone, opened the messaging app, and started typing to Sierra. A long, frantic confession—apologies, regrets, all the things he’d never say aloud. He hit send and watched the text slide into the queue of twenty-plus unanswered messages.

The screen dimmed. He let the phone drop beside him, stretched back across the immaculate mattress, and, despite the adrenaline buzzing in his veins, slipped into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

Three floors down, in the hotel’s underground parking garage, an unmarked sedan idled in a shadowed corner. Inside, two men waited.

The one in the driver’s seat—NYPD—answered a buzzing phone, listened, and gave a clipped reply before hanging up.

His partner from LAPD, balanced a takeout box on his knee, glanced over. "That the DA?"

"Yeah. Warrant’s still hung up. Judge hasn’t signed off yet."

"So?"

"They want him brought in for questioning the moment he heads for the terminal. Buy time, keep him from getting on that plane."

The LAPD cop nodded, closed his container, and wiped his hands on a napkin. "Got it." He stepped out to toss the trash, eyes scanning the lot as he returned. The smell of jet fuel drifted faintly through the vents.

Hours crawled by.

Near dusk, the elevator doors at the far end of the garage slid open. Adrian stepped out.

Even in worn jeans and a dark bomber jacket, he carried the demeanor of someone who belonged to the rich circles of young men. Sunglasses hid the tired bruising around his eyes, but nothing covered the coiled tension in his stride.

Both cops straightened.

Adrian walked toward the center of the garage, thumb brushing the key fob in his palm. A soft chirp answered—a sleek black sedan across the lane flashed its lights.

He adjusted his grip on the duffel slung over one shoulder and kept moving, unaware of the eyes tracking every step.

The driver leaned forward, murmuring, "That’s him."

"Yeah," the other replied, already reaching for his phone. "Let’s see if the DA beats the boarding call."

They watched as he got into the car, started it, and drove off.

The NYPD cop started the engine.

The LA officer said into the phone.

"Target’s on the move," he said quietly. "Notify airport details. We’ve got him."

~

By the time Adrian reached the terminal, dusk had slipped fully into night. The black sedan ate up the short drive, tires humming against the pavement. He’d kept the radio off the whole way, the silence broken only by the occasional vibration of his phone—no new messages, no answer from Sierra.

Inside, the terminal smelled of coffee and floor wax. Travelers dragged wheeled suitcases, announcements pinged over the PA, and the buzz of departures wrapped everything in a thin, restless energy. Adrian moved with it, sunglasses still on, collar up, duffel hanging loose at his side. From a distance he looked like any other first-class passenger—expensive jacket, understated watch, a face that could belong on a billboard if not for the faint shadow of exhaustion around his mouth.

Behind him, the unmarked sedan rolled to a stop in the short-term lot. The NYPD detective made a quick call as the LAPD officer scanned the crowd, locking on Adrian’s tall frame cutting through the security line. "He’s inside," the driver said quietly. "Let him get to the gate. Copy that."

Adrian breezed through TSA with the reflex of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Shoes off, belt off, laptop in a tray—movements automatic, expression flat. His carry-on cleared without a hitch. For a moment, he felt almost relieved, as if the worst had passed and the night would end with the clean escape of a late flight.

Gate B17 was quiet, the boarding sign not yet lit. Adrian claimed a seat near the window and checked his phone again. Still nothing from Sierra. He exhaled hard, thumb hovering over the screen, debating another message when a shadow fell across him.

"Mr. Adrian Hoffman?"

Two men stood there, both in plain clothes but unmistakably official—badges clipped to belts.

Adrian looked up slowly, one eyebrow arched. "Yeah?"

"We’d like to ask you a few questions about an ongoing investigation," the taller one said. His tone was polite, but the way he planted his feet left no room for misinterpretation. "Could you come with us for a quick interview?"

Adrian’s eyes narrowed behind his shades. "About what?"

"Not here," the second officer said. "There’s a private room downstairs. You’re not under arrest. We just need to talk."

"Then I don’t need to go anywhere," Adrian countered, voice low. A few passengers glanced up from their phones, sensing the shift in air pressure.

The first officer gestured slightly, and as Adrian turned his head he caught sight of two airport security agents flanking the end of the row—hands resting near their radios, attention fixed entirely on him. Behind them, a TSA supervisor lingered, clearly briefed. The circle was closing.

Adrian’s jaw tightened. He could walk, but he wouldn’t get far. And making a scene would only feed the cameras already lifting in curious hands. He rose, slow and deliberate, and slung the duffel over his shoulder. "Fine," he said. "But I’m not saying a damn thing without a lawyer."

"Of course," the detective replied smoothly. "You have that right."

They escorted him through a service corridor to a small interview room—white walls, a table bolted to the floor, the hum of a vent overhead. Adrian dropped into the chair opposite them, leaning back with a composure that didn’t quite mask the tension buzzing beneath his skin.

The first thirty minutes stretched like wire. The detectives tried soft angles—idle questions, offers of water, the occasional remark meant to trip him into conversation. Adrian stared past them, silent. "I said I’m waiting for my lawyer," he repeated whenever they pressed. His phone lay facedown on the table, untouched.

At minute thirty-eight, a phone buzzed. The NYPD detective stepped into the hallway, returned a minute later with a new weight in his eyes. He exchanged a brief glance with his partner.

"Mr. Hoffman," the taller one said, voice suddenly formal. "The District Attorney’s office has just issued a warrant for your arrest."

Adrian’s head snapped up, the first crack in his calm showing in the quick flicker of disbelief.

The detective set a sheet of paper on the table. "You’re under arrest for obstruction and suspicion of conspiracy in the attempted homicide of—"

Before the rest registered, the LAPD officer was already reading him his rights.

Adrian leaned back, a cold smile pulling at his mouth even as the cuffs clicked around his wrists. "What the fuck has been the use of running if this was going to happen. Fuck." he cursed.

The door opened. Uniformed airport security stepped aside as the detectives led him out, the echo of their footsteps lost beneath the boarding announcements still ringing through the terminal.