The freeway out of the city was deserted that morning. There was barely any traffic. Just gray light seeping across the horizon and a wispy mist clinging to the edges of the freeway. Ivy sat in the passenger seat, arms folded across her chest, watching the city fade behind them in the side mirror. It was gone before long.
Elias drove with one hand, the other drumming a beat on the steering column. He wasn't saying much, and that was all right—neither of them had slept, and they were easy with the silence between them now, not tense.
Ivy darted glances his way occasionally. His eyes were sharp despite the hour, his jaw tight as though he was working something out in his head.
"You don't have to come," she said, finally.
Elias didn't look at her. "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Because if I don't, I'll wonder what I missed. And because you'd go alone. And you shouldn't."
She nodded, accepting the answer. That was one thing about Elias—he didn't say things if he didn't mean them.
They reached the Pennsylvania state line a little after 9:00 AM. Ivy had found the address of the post office by cross-referencing county tax records. It was in a small town with a population so low it lacked a traffic light. There was just one gas station, a diner, and a general store. The post office was next to an old abandoned train station and looked more like a cabin than a federal building.
"Last chance to turn back," Elias said
Ivy took a breath. "Let's do it."
The bell above the door jingled as they went in. The woman behind the counter looked up, surprised. In her late fifties, hair back in a messy bun, she was reading a paperback novel.
"Can I help you?" she said.
"We're looking for someone," Ivy said. "He goes by Matthew Soren."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Depends on who's asking."
Elias stepped forward, calm and steady. "We're not police. We're not reporters. We just need to ask him a few questions. That's all."
The woman looked them over. Then she sighed and stepped out from behind the counter.
"He works mornings. Wraps up around ten. If he sees strangers, he runs. You want to have a hope of talking to him; don't frighten him off."
"Got it," Ivy said.
They sat in the parking lot. Twenty minutes passed. Then a man came out of the back door with a small handful of mail. Older than the photographs Ivy had seen—late forties, maybe now—but the eyes were the same. Watchful. Guarded.
She moved forward slowly.
"Jordan?"
The man stopped.
His hands tightened slightly on the handful of envelopes, but he didn't run.
"Who's asking?"
"Ivy Casella," she said. "This is Elias Rourke. We're not here to expose you. We're here because your name showed up in buried city records. Records they're trying very hard to erase."
Jordan looked past her, toward the car, then toward the woods behind the post office. Weighing his options.
Finally, he said, "Walk with me."
They walked behind the building, down a dirt path that led to a clearing with an old bench facing a creek. Jordan sat. Ivy and Elias stood.
"You've found Stillpoint," he said quietly.
Ivy nodded. "What was it?"
Jordan sighed. "It was a lifeboat. A group of people who believed that if you got the truth out there in the proper way, you could make things better. We were naïve. We thought public outcry still meant something."
"What happened?" Elias asked.
"They found us," Jordan said. "One by one, the group members either vanished or were quieted. I faked my own death. Moved here. New identity. Clean slate."
Ivy sat down. "We need to prove it. Zoning fraud, shell corporations, signatures that aren't theirs. We need you to help us connect the dots."
Jordan shook his head. "I cannot go back. If they catch up with me—"
"They already are," Elias said. "They left a flower on her desk. Broke into her apartment. They're circling again, which means they're scared."
Jordan rubbed his hands together, silent for a moment.
Then he looked at Ivy.
You're the one they're watching?"
She nodded.
Jordan studied her. "You're not a reporter. Or a lawyer. You don't look like a threat."
"I'm not," she said. "But I'm still here."
That made him hesitate.
"You remind me of someone," he said. "She was quiet too. Nice. People listened when she talked because they could tell she was sincere."
He stood. "I'll help." But I stay off-record. No interviews. No names."
"Agreed," Ivy said.
He handed her the flash drive from his jacket pocket.
"Everything I saved. Every document I could smuggle out before I disappeared. It's encrypted. Password's the last line of the city charter."
Ivy blinked. "You memorized that?"
"I had time."
On the ride back, Elias was quiet. Ivy could tell something was percolating beneath his calm facade.
Finally, he spoke.
"You handled that better than I ever could."
"What do you mean?"
"I would've pushed. Threatened to tattle on him. Used guilt. You just… listened. And he gave you everything."
Ivy stared out the window. "People don't want to be pushed. They want to be heard."
Elias turned to her. "That's your power, you know."
"What is it?"
"The way people lean toward you. Like gravity."
She had no response to that. So she said nothing.
Back in the city, Ivy uploaded Jordan's flash drive into the same encrypted folder they'd been building. The files were a mess—dozens of names, addresses, photographs, and back-channel emails. Some of the data was five years old, but a lot of it mirrored the permits they'd already found.
The puzzle was starting to come together.
That night, Ivy stayed late in the archive. Elias had gone out at ten to follow up on a lead on one of the shell companies. She'd said she'd lock up.
At 11:37 PM, there was a knock at the door to the archive.
Not a loud one. Three soft taps.
Ivy froze. She hadn't told anyone she was still inside.
She tiptoed to the door and looked through the small square of reinforced glass.
Outside stood Sasha, the janitor from the library's night staff. She was short, in her sixties, with sharp eyes and no patience for nonsense.
Ivy opened the door a crack.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
Sasha stepped in, looked around, and closed the door behind her.
"I've seen people coming down here at night," she said. "People who don't belong. Men in suits. Flashlights. Talking in codes."
Ivy's heart kicked.
"Why are you telling me this?" she said.
"Because I've been watching you," Sasha replied. "You treat me like I'm real. You don't scream at me or pretend I'm invisible. And I think you're doing something important."
Ivy swallowed. "I don't know what to say."
Sasha smiled. "You don't have to say anything. Just keep doing it. And don't let them chase you away."
She turned to go, then hesitated.
"Oh—and you didn't hear it from me," she went on, pushing a key across Ivy's desk. "Back room. Behind cabinet seven. There's a hatch. Goes deeper. Used to be part of the city's old mail tunnel system."
She walked away as if nothing had happened.
Ivy stared at the key.
Then at the floor beneath her feet.