Page 60 of Only the Hunter

The office suite is empty.

No furniture. No computers. Just faint impressions in the carpet where desks once stood. Once again I sniff the hint of cleaning solution, as if someone scrubbed away any trace of occupation—but maybe our timing is coinciding with the building cleaning service.

“They were here briefly,” the property manager says. “Foreign consultants.”

“How long?” I ask.

“A month. Paid in advance. Good tenants.”

“When did they leave?”

He presses his lips together, angling his head slightly, thinking. “Recently.”

Again, not reassuring.

“Did they provide a forwarding address?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Left with several weeks still on the lease.”

This isn’t the place they’d bring Lina, but I still show him a photo of her on my phone. His brow crinkles.

“She’s not familiar, but dressed like a professional, it’s possible I might not recognize her.”

Lina wouldn’t have been here in a suit. And this man doesn’t recognize I’m searching for a woman who would either be protected or possibly held against her will.

“Do you have security footage?” I ask.

“Not anymore,” he says. “Forty-eight-hour retention. It’s been longer than that.” Of course it has. The timing is too convenient.

Gabe moves to the window, scanning the grounds. “No security cameras in the hallway,” he says. “And this office faces an alley. Easy in, easy out.”

The property manager doesn’t react to this observation, which tells me he’s used to tenants who value discretion. Perhaps he’s also used to people following up after his tenants move out.

We don’t speak again until we’re outside on the sidewalk. Cars move past us with indifference. The entire city hums on, perfectly unbothered.

I stop walking, frustration crystallizing into certainty. “These people definitely aren’t protecting her. This is about making her impossible to find.”

Gabe turns to face me fully, reading my expression. I look back at the building. At the clean lines and expensive façade and utter emptiness behind it.

“Switzerland wasn’t a destination. It’s a wash cycle.”

“Then we follow the water,” Gabe says quietly.

I can only nod. Giving up isn’t an option. Somewhere in this city, there’s another layer. Another shell. And inside it—I have to believe—Lina.

The third address is an NGO with actual infrastructure—offices, staff, a public mission statement about refugee protection. If Lina passed through their system, someone here saw her. Spoke to her. Maybe even helped move her to the next layer. It’s our best lead, and possibly our last one today.

By midday, the cold has worked its way through my gloves and into my fingers, but I welcome the sting. It keeps me sharp and keeps the anger contained.

The NGO’s Geneva office sits near the river, housed in a building that looks deliberately unremarkable—frosted glass, neutral signage, the kind of place designed to blend into the city’s administrative ecosystem. Legitimate, respectable, and unassailable. I pause at the entrance.

“You good?” Gabe asks, as calm and steady as ever.

I nod. “They won’t tell me anything officially. But there’s a possibility someone might tell me something unofficially. But I need to go in alone, okay?”

“How long do I give you before I come in?”

“Twenty minutes. Unless I text.”