1

  Greta ordered an espresso. The caffeine would help dispel the mental fog caused by the news. The smell of hot oil and sautéed onions escaping from the kitchen had stopped being comforting: it caused nausea after lunch. She was still trying to process the newspaper's revelations, but was determined not to let any of it influence her mood. She needed to move forward.

  That's when someone approached from behind her, displacing the air around. Before she could react, the man opened a map on the table, leaning over her shoulder as if asking for information. The familiar voice made Greta's blood freeze. Deep. Controlled. Cold. Unmistakable. The kidnapper's voice.

  "Don't scream," Daros instructed, his finger pointing to a random spot on the map, between the blue of a river and the green of the forest. "If I wanted to do something against you, no one here would have the time to stop me."

  Her face caught fire, a mixture of fright, anger, and humiliation. Greta felt something slide under the newspaper on the table. For a moment, she imagined a snake crawling across the plastic tablecloth, viscous and icy.

  "I put a note there," he continued, still pretending to study the map. "Read it carefully before leaving the café. Be discreet. Your life may be at risk."

  As quickly as he appeared, the figure vanished, leaving Greta stunned. Her life could be at risk? Of course it was! The kidnapper was still after her. What kind of game was this? Whatever the answer, she doubted she wanted to participate in it.

  But there was a catch. He'd let her leave when he could have easily kept her prisoner. The thought left her disoriented, torn between distrust and the desire to believe she might have an ally.

  The truth was she didn't have much choice. Daros himself had calculated her chances: "no one here would have the time to stop me." Simulating a little naturalness, she crossed one leg over the other and pulled the newspaper with the note closer. She leaned over the table, using her own body as a shield against curious eyes. She began to read.

  You're being followed by a black Honda Civic with Porto Alegre plates. The driver's side rearview mirror is lighter. It indicates it was replaced. You have no reason to believe me and I don't expect you to. Call an Uber from your phone and go wherever you want, as long as it's a public place with plenty of people around. You'll see the Civic go after you. Stay calm. If you haven't been approached until now, it's because your pursuer has other plans. If you want my help, go back to your car and pretend to look for something on the floor. Pick up the next note. If you want to go alone, call the police and leave. The choice is yours. Important: do whatever you want, but don't change phones. That would make it clear to your pursuer that you noticed his presence.

  Greta read the note. Then reread it. And again. With each reading, the outline of the world became more unstable. The faces of people at the nearest tables lost their sharpness. The idea of being followed was terrifying, but it made sense. That's why she was on the road, after all. Because freedom was something she needed to conquer. Why was someone monitoring her movements without a direct approach? Maybe the plan was simply to find out where she was going. And do what afterward?

  Well, she thought she knew.

  Her eyes ran to the café window, looking for a black Civic. After observing the parking lot for a while, there was one, exactly as described in the note. She couldn't see the rearview mirror from that distance. But, to tell the truth, that model in that color wasn't exactly a rare sight.

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  With the note hidden in the newspaper under her arm, she paid the bill and left. She thought about examining the rearview mirror up close and quickly changed her mind. She'd draw the attention of whoever was behind the wheel. The truth was that the presence of a black Civic, with a faded rearview mirror or not, wasn't proof of anything. Her kidnapper could be bluffing.

  She could scream for help. Scream very loud. If it was a bluff, Daros would find a way to disappear from there. But if it wasn't a trick, maybe she'd draw the attention of the wrong people.

  In the parking lot, she assessed the road stretching before her eyes, infinite to the left, infinite to the right. She felt the contents of her purse in search of her phone. The rideshare app painted the screen in darkness, challenging. It was a simple test. If Daros was lying, she'd only lose a few minutes and a few reais to pay for the ride. If he was telling the truth...

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to organize her thoughts. Was the man who'd kidnapped her really trying to help? The same guy who, according to the newspaper, had broken someone's neck for no reason? Nothing made sense. There was only one certainty: she needed to know the truth.

  All it took was one step. One touch. And the truth could finally begin to appear.

  2

  Daros lowered the cap brim by instinct. It was what he did when he wanted to go unnoticed. But what he needed now wasn't to disappear: it was to erase traces. He glanced at the camera attached to the corner of the station's ceiling, still sitting behind the Jeep's wheel.

  The red LED blinked at regular intervals, indicating the equipment was on. The side parking lot, almost empty, was directly captured by the device. And there, parked in a space near the wall separating the parking lot from the sidewalk, was the woman's car. The black Civic remained parked farther away, in the main parking lot. Surveillance of the entrance was irrelevant. Capturing images of the Civic wasn't his problem now.

  Although Greta's hesitation represented extra time, it wasn't enough. Time was a luxury he didn't have. Working under surveillance wasn't an option. Being filmed, even less so. He leaned back in his seat while enumerating the options.

  Physically destroying the camera was out of question. A cut cable or broken lens would alert the station's security personnel. A team could be sent within minutes to check the problem. It had worked at the empty station, but it was risky now.

  He had a small jamming device in his backpack, something he used to temporarily interfere with Wi-Fi signals. But it generated a detectable pattern—a "signal lost" alert in the central system. And that would only hasten the security guards' arrival. Worst-case scenario. Even if they were men without tactical training for a confrontation, involving civilians carried serious consequences, like unwanted attention.

  Daros had the equipment and knowledge for remote access. He could hack the system and disable the camera. However, the station's Wi-Fi wasn't a simple network. He'd tested it briefly before writing the first note. The security company's firewall could log the intrusion, and he didn't have time to cover his tracks.

  He massaged his temples in circular movements, eyes closed. He needed a more discreet alternative.

  When he opened his eyelids, he saw a woman in the distance spreading a children's blanket with an embroidered elephant over a crib. That was it. A simple, silent, effective option: cover the camera for a while. No blanket, though. Just a trick to blind the device.

  He put his hand in his jacket pocket, where he kept a compact flashlight with infrared LEDs, a simple modification that had saved his skin before. The light wasn't visible to the naked eye, but to the camera's sensors it worked like a spotlight aimed directly at the lens.

  Daros crossed the side parking lot like any tourist, looking around from time to time as if he didn't know where to go. He didn't alter his pace even when he caught Greta's figure through peripheral vision. He stopped next to the last car before the low wall facing the woods, pretending to check his phone once more. He discreetly raised the flashlight, adjusting the angle as he'd done so many times before. The secret was to keep a steady wrist and a constant beam.

  The camera's video feed now displayed a bright blur, as if there was a constant light reflection on the lens. To the security system operators, it would give the mere impression of a technical defect or an annoying reflection. Nothing that required immediate attention.

  Done. No witnesses. No failure.