Genevieve Hayes had spent fifteen years perfecting the art of being invisible

She wore neutral colors. She avoided personal stories. She never accepted invitations after meetings. She never answered questions about family, childhood, or the faint accent that appeared only when she was tired.

Every part of her life had been built like a locked room.

And with three careless words, she had opened the door.

As dinner dragged on, she could feel Costa watching her. Not constantly. That would have been crude. He glanced only when necessary, the way a hunter studies movement in tall grass.

He was not confused.

He was measuring.

How did a corporate translator from New York know a dialect tied to men who vanished before police could ask questions?