Chapter 174
Ellie's POV
The safe house felt oppressively quiet when I arrived, my breath coming in short gasps from the sprint across campus. Jackson was already there, pacing in front of the window, his shoulders tight with tension. The fading afternoon light cast long shadows across the room, and I could see his hands clenched at his sides—not quite fists, but close.
"Hey," I said softly, pushing the door shut behind me.
He turned immediately, and the relief that flickered across his face was almost painful to witness. "Ellie." He crossed to me in three strides, pulling me into a brief, fierce hug. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Lily's the one falling apart." I stepped back, running both hands through my hair. "Did you get anything else from Jake?"
Jackson gestured toward the table where he'd spread out a notebook covered in his neat handwriting. "Sat down with him for ten minutes. He's positive it was Ryan—recognized the CVU hoodie and that ridiculous neon green backpack he always carries. The SUV was dark, maybe black or navy, tinted windows. Ryan got in the back seat willingly, even waved before they drove off."
"Back seat," I repeated, processing. "So there was a driver, probably someone Ryan knew well enough to trust."
"That's what I'm thinking." Jackson's jaw tightened. "But here's what doesn't make sense—Ryan told me he was going to meet Lily. Told Lily I needed him for something. Why the conflicting stories?"
I sank into one of the chairs, my legs suddenly unreliable. "Because he didn't want either of us checking up on him. He wanted to buy time before anyone realized he was gone."
Jackson nodded slowly, leaning against the table. I noticed the way his hand trembled slightly as he gripped the edge—the moon's six days out, affecting both of us—and forced myself to take a steadying breath.
"We need to stay calm," I said, as much to myself as to him. "Can't let our... conditions mess with our judgment right now."
His eyes flashed gold for half a second before he blinked it away. "I know. But Ellie, if Ryan deliberately lied to both of us, that means—"
"That means he's hiding something big," I finished. "Something he thought required elaborate cover stories. Family emergency? Secret relationship? Some kind of—"
"Trouble he didn't want us involved in," Jackson said grimly. He pushed off from the table, resumed pacing. "Lily wants to report this to campus police?"
"She's terrified. But..." I pulled out my phone, scrolled back through Jake's message that Jackson had forwarded to me. "Jake saw him get in the car voluntarily. He waved. To police, that's a college student exercising his right to leave campus. They won't take it seriously until forty-eight hours pass, and even then—"
"They'll just say he's an adult who doesn't have to tell anyone where he's going." Jackson's frustration bled through his carefully controlled tone. "Damn it. We can't just sit here doing nothing."
Thalia stirred restlessly inside me, feeding off the tension and proximity to the full moon. I pressed my palm flat against the table, grounding myself. "Then we need information. Real information, not speculation. Ryan's been deliberately low-key about his background—I've known him all year and couldn't tell you where he's from or what his family does."
Jackson stopped mid-stride, something shifting in his expression. "You're right. He never talks about home. Never mentions parents or siblings. I just assumed..." He trailed off, then pulled out his phone. "Give me a second."
"Who are you calling?"
"Miles." He was already dialing. "If anyone can dig up background information fast, it's him. His business connections are—Uncle, hey. I need a favor."
I watched Jackson pace to the window as he explained the situation in crisp, efficient sentences. The conversation was brief—Miles apparently didn't need much convincing. Jackson rattled off what little we knew about Ryan: full name Ryan Carter, second-year pre-med student, from Aspen, Colorado.
"Aspen," Jackson repeated, something changing in his voice. "Yeah, I caught that too. Okay. Call me back as soon as you know anything. Thanks."
He ended the call and turned to face me, eyebrows raised. "Miles said he'll have his commercial investigation team pull everything they can find. He also said"—Jackson's mouth twisted—"that anyone who can afford to live in Aspen isn't exactly hurting for money. That's one of the most expensive resort towns in America."
"Rich family," I said slowly. "Rich family that Ryan's been hiding from us. He drives a fifteen-year-old Honda, wears thrift store clothes, never—" I stopped, memory surfacing. "Wait. Remember when his wallet fell out at the library? There was a black credit card. I thought it was just a parent's spare, but..."
"But if he's from that kind of money..." Jackson's eyes narrowed. "Why come to CVU? Why not Harvard or Stanford? Why hide it?"
Because he was running from something. The thought crystallized in my mind with uncomfortable clarity. "Maybe he wanted to be somewhere his family name didn't matter. Somewhere he could just be Ryan, not Ryan from the Carter dynasty or whatever."
"Or maybe," Jackson said quietly, "he was trying to escape expectations. Pressure. The kind of life that comes with serious wealth." He met my eyes, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing—about our own secrets, our own hidden identities. "I get that. The wanting to be normal."
My phone buzzed. Lily, asking if we had any updates, her desperation bleeding through the misspellings and frantic punctuation. I typed back a carefully neutral response: Still checking. Hang tight. You're not alone in this.
"How long do you think Miles needs?" I asked Jackson.
"He said an hour. Probably less." Jackson checked his watch. "It's four forty now. We should know something by six."
An hour. I pulled my laptop from my bag, opened it on the table. "Then let's not waste it. I'm going to dig into Ryan's social media, see what I can find. You have access to his CVU student file?"
"Not officially, but—" Jackson's smile was grim. "Tyler owes me a favor. Let me text him."
We settled into focused silence, each pursuing our own investigative threads. Ryan's Instagram was sparse—landscape photos of Colorado mountains, a few shots of CVU campus, almost nothing personal. His Facebook privacy settings were locked down tight. LinkedIn was completely empty.
But buried in the Instagram archives, I found a photo from three years ago: teenage Ryan standing in front of a massive log mansion, mountains rising behind it, the caption simply "Home." I zoomed in on the house—it was enormous, the kind of property that screamed old money.
"Jackson." I turned the laptop toward him. "Look at this."