Page 19 of Noel Secrets

Really pretty.

He hadn’t planned to say that. He’d meant to say short, or maybe young, or possibly stubborn. But the truth had slipped out before he could catch it, and it startled him enough that he actually faltered mid-stride. Because it was true. Jayda had always been beautiful. Not in the polished, curated way of New York socialites he sometimes brushed shoulders with at events, but in a way that felt natural and comforting.

And now, seeing her as an adult…her beauty was sharper. More stunning—smart. And somehow, she tugged at places in his chest he’d worked hard to keep barricaded.

But there was no time to think about that. She was missing with a killer on the train. And she was on his list.

A woman at one table tilted her head. “I think I saw someone who fits that description. She went into Room 19. Back in the cabins.”

Michael’s breath caught.

Room 19.

His room.

He hadn’t checked there. Because why would Jayda?—?

He didn’t wait to finish the thought. He bolted.

The corridor felt narrower on the sprint back. He fumbled for his key card even before he reached the door, his hand slick with sweat despite the drafty chill of the train.

He shoved the key in, the lock beeped, and he threw the door open.

And stopped dead.

Jayda sat on the bench across from his unmade bunk, her curls framing her face like a storm cloud. She was holding a folded sheet of paper in her lap. Her posture was unnervingly still, except for her eyes—wide and carrying both defiance and fear.

Michael stepped in and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked, a small sound swallowed by the rumble of the tracks.

Jayda didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up right away. Then, with a voice flat but edged with fragility, she said, “I need your help.”

Michael froze at her words.

Jayda never asked anyone for help, not when they were kids, not when she was dropped into his mother’s house with nothing but a plastic grocery bag of clothes, not when she grew up and clawed her way through school. She was stubborn and relentless, but most of all, independent. And now she was sitting on his bench seat, framed by the dim train light, clutching papers like they might vanish in her hands, and asking him for help.

“What are those?” he asked, his voice sharper than intended.

Her eyes flicked up, dark and worried, before returning to the sheets of paper.

“It’s why they’re after me,” she whispered. “These papers are from a law file. This all started in the Yale library. A man was stealing it. I tried to stop him. He attacked me and dropped it.”

Michael sat in a slump on his bed across from her. “He attacked you?”

She nodded with a wave of her hand. “I tasered him and got away. But I grabbed these papers on my way out.”

Michael’s stomach dropped. He leaned closer, feeling the sway of the train under him. “Youtaseredhim?”

She lifted her chin at him. “He had a gun. I did what I had to do. It doesn’t matter, Michael. What matters is this name.” She tapped the page with her finger. “Veronica Carlisle. She was listed as a witness. These documents show she testified and then disappeared. Possibly witness protection. These are pictures of her.”

Michael frowned, trying to chase the connection. He reached out, and after a hesitation, she handed him the pages. His journalist’s eye devoured them quickly—typed notes, a government seal, but on the top, Veronica’s name was listed as a witness…the same name on the hit-list.

“She’s next,” Michael muttered.

“Yes, and so am I,” Jayda finished. Her voice cracked just enough to betray the fear she held back. “But what if they need this file to figure out where she really went? Whoever wants her gone…they won’t stop until they have these.”

Michael stared at the name. His throat went dry. Veronica Carlisle. He’d never heard of her before, but he’d seen this sort of document before—in exposés about witness tampering, organized crime hits, leaks inside protective custody. A cold weight settled in his chest.

“And these pictures,” Jayda said, tugging another sheet from the folded mess in her lap. She held it up. A grainy black-and-white photo, clearly an old surveillance image of a woman stepping off the platform of a train, her hair pulled tight and her head low. “These were in the file too. They’re looking for her.”