Page 76 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

I didn't go back to sleep.

Instead, I stared at the girl’s name I didn’t know, the face I couldn’t quite remember. But I felt her. I remembered the way her eyes locked on mine just before I shouted at Caleb. Before the gun went off. Before everything changed.

Tag’s voice echoed in my head: You sure it was only Caleb in that warehouse?

No. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

I drove into the city before sunrise, coffee in one hand, case folder in the other, and a notebook full of questions that no longer had answers. But I knew where to start.

Back to the warehouse.

The place had been condemned, supposedly torn down five years ago. But when I pulled up and parked across the street, I saw the new build—modern, steel, clean—and the same rusted fence still half-standing in the back. Like a scar the city forgot to cover up.

I hopped the fence, boots hitting dirt soft with years of neglect. The loading dock where I’d cornered Caleb was now part of a sleek office extension. But the foundation? The bones of this place? Still the same.

I walked along the side where the crates used to be stacked. Where I saw her.

Long hair. Bare feet. Eyes wide with terror.

Why was she there?

And more importantly… who put her there?

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Tag.

Tag:

Ran the old floor plan like you asked. One section was sealed off. No entry on the official records. No photos either.

But Aponi—

That wing was used by a nonprofit before the fire. “Youth Renewal.” Funded through a shell account.

Smells off. Want me to keep digging?

I stared at the name.

Youth Renewal.

I’d never heard of it.

But I knew a cover when I saw one.

I texted him back.

Me:

Yes. And run Caleb’s offshore accounts again. If that girl saw anything , it’s tied to money.

I walked around the back, my boots crunching over gravel, and stopped at the edge of the last wall that hadn’t been rebuilt. It was cracked and weather-worn, with graffiti scrawled across the concrete.

But one phrase caught my eye.

Spray-painted in red. Faded. But still legible.

“I saw what you did.”

My breath caught.

It wasn’t a tag.

It was a message .

Someone had survived.

Someone still remembered.

And maybe… someone was still out there.

I snapped a picture and backed away slowly, suddenly aware of how alone I was.

Then I felt it.

That sensation—like eyes on me. Watching.

I turned.

No one.

But my hand moved instinctively to the Glock at my side.

I didn’t come this far to die now.

If they wanted to silence me, they were too late.

Because this time… I wasn’t the only one remembering. I had to find whoever wrote this.