“To get information.”
The Evanston address was on a quiet residential street lined with tall trees and brick townhouses.
I parked half a block away.
Priya’s warning replayed in my head.
Do not go to the property alone.
Technically, I wasn’t going inside.
I wasn’t even getting out of the car.
That distinction felt thin.
The address belonged to a narrow three-story building with cream trim and flower boxes beneath the windows.
Nothing unusual.
No business sign.
No construction.
No obvious explanation.
I checked the number again.
Correct.
My heart thudded.
Then the front door opened.
A woman stepped outside.
Late thirties, maybe.
Dark blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
Jeans.
Green jacket.
She was carrying a little boy’s backpack.
A boy followed her.
Six or seven years old.
He was talking animatedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
She smiled down at him.
My first thought was simple.
Wrong address.
There had to be an explanation.
Daniel might own the property as an investment.
Maybe they were tenants.
That made sense.
Then another person stepped through the door.
Daniel.
I stopped breathing.
He wasn’t wearing the clothes he left home in.
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