Chapter 6: Digital Footprints

—Killian—

The private investigation firm of Sterling & Associates occupied the forty-third floor of a glass tower in downtown Seattle, their reputation built on discretion and results that other firms couldn't deliver. I'd used them twice before—once to investigate a potential business partner who'd been skimming funds, and once to locate a former employee who'd stolen proprietary technology before disappearing to Singapore.

Both times, they'd delivered answers within seventy-two hours.

"Mr. Hart." Victoria Sterling stood as I entered her corner office, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun that matched her no-nonsense expression. At sixty-two, she was one of the most feared investigators on the West Coast, with connections that reached into places most people didn't know existed. "I assume this isn't a corporate matter."

"It's personal." I settled into the leather chair across from her desk, noting how her eyes sharpened with interest. Victoria Sterling lived for cases that challenged her considerable skills. "I need you to find someone."

"I see." She opened a fresh file folder, her fountain pen poised over pristine paper. "Name?"

"Celeste Whitmore. Mid-twenties to early thirties. Currently operating a flower shop in Bellingham, Washington." I paused, then added the part that had been eating at me for three days. "She may not be who she claims to be."

Victoria's pen stopped moving. "You suspect false identity?"

"I suspect she's someone I used to know. Someone who disappeared five years ago without a word." The admission tasted bitter on my tongue. "I need to know if I'm chasing ghosts or if she's real."

"And if she's real?"

That was the question I'd been avoiding since I'd walked out of the hotel that night. What did I want from Celeste if I found her? Answers? Closure? Or something I was afraid to name?

"Then I need to know everything," I said finally. "Where she's been, how she's been living, why she left. Everything."

Victoria nodded, making notes in her precise handwriting. "I'll need whatever information you have on both identities—the woman you're looking for and the woman she used to be."

I slid a manila envelope across her desk. "Everything I know about Celeste Blackwood is in there. Marriage certificate, divorce papers, the few photographs we had together. As for Celeste Whitmore..." I pulled out my phone and showed her the blurry social media photo that had started this obsession. "This is all I have."

Victoria studied the image with professional interest. "Not much to work with, but I've had harder cases. What's your timeline?"

"Yesterday." I stood, straightening my suit jacket. "Bill me whatever it takes. I want answers, Victoria. Real answers."

"You'll have them." She walked me to the door, her expression thoughtful. "Mr. Hart? In my experience, people who disappear usually have good reasons. Are you prepared for the possibility that she won't want to be found?"

The question followed me down forty-three floors and out into the Seattle afternoon. Was I prepared? I'd been asking myself the same thing for three sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling of my penthouse and trying to understand why a thirty-second glimpse of a woman in black had unraveled five years of carefully constructed emotional distance.

The truth was, I didn't care if she wanted to be found. I needed to know. The not knowing was killing me by degrees, making it impossible to focus on board meetings or quarterly projections or any of the things that had once consumed my existence.

Victoria Sterling called eighteen hours later.

"I have preliminary findings," she said without preamble. "Can you be here in an hour?"

The elevator ride to the forty-third floor felt like it took forever. By the time I reached Victoria's office, my hands were steady but my heart was hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

"Sit down, Mr. Hart." Victoria's tone was gentler than usual, which immediately put me on edge. In my experience, investigators only used that voice when they were about to deliver news that would change everything.

"Just tell me."

She opened a thick file folder, revealing photographs, documents, and what looked like surveillance reports. "Celeste Whitmore exists. She's been living in Bellingham for approximately four and a half years, operating under legitimate documentation—Social Security number, driver's license, tax records. If it's a false identity, it's expertly crafted."

"But?"

"But there are gaps. No employment history before she arrived in Bellingham. No credit history extending back more than five years. No educational records that I can verify." Victoria pulled out a photograph—a clearer image of the woman arranging flowers, this one taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. "This was taken yesterday at her shop. Take a look."

My breath caught in my throat. Even in profile, even with five years of changes, I knew that face. The elegant line of her neck, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated, the graceful movement of her hands as she worked.

"It's her," I said quietly. "It's Celeste."

"I believe you're right." Victoria pulled out another photograph. "But Mr. Hart, there's something else. Something you need to see."

The second photo showed Celeste outside what appeared to be a preschool, her arms wrapped around a small figure. The child was turned away from the camera, but I could see dark hair, small hands clutching a backpack covered in cartoon animals.

"She has a child," Victoria said carefully. "A daughter, from what I can determine. Age approximately four to five years old."

The world tilted sideways. A daughter. Celeste had a daughter.

"Do you have any clearer photos of the child?" My voice sounded strange, distant, like it was coming from someone else.

"This is the best we could get without getting too close and risking exposure." Victoria slid a third photograph across the desk. "School pickup yesterday afternoon."

I stared at the image with an intensity that should have burned a hole through the paper. The photo was taken from across the street, showing Celeste kneeling beside a small figure on the steps of Bellingham Elementary. The child's face was turned toward Celeste, her features obscured by the angle and distance, but something about her posture, the way she held herself...

"What's the child's name?" I asked.

"That's where it gets interesting." Victoria consulted her notes. "The school records are sealed—privacy laws regarding minors. But I was able to determine that she's enrolled under the name Aria Whitmore. No father listed on any of the documents I could access."

Aria. A beautiful name. A name that meant nothing to me and everything at the same time.

"How old?" I asked, though I was afraid of the answer.

"The birth date on her school records indicates she's four years old. Born..." Victoria paused, checking her notes. "Born approximately eight months after your ex-wife disappeared."

The timeline crashed over me like a tsunami. Eight months. If Celeste had been pregnant when she left me...

"I need more information," I said, my voice rough with emotions I couldn't name. "Birth certificate, medical records, anything that might indicate—"

"Mr. Hart." Victoria's voice was gentle but firm. "Those records are heavily protected when it comes to minor children. Getting access would require either parental consent or a court order, and both would alert the mother that someone is investigating."

I stared at the blurry photograph, trying to make out details that weren't there. The child could be anyone's. A boyfriend Celeste had found after our divorce, a relationship that had moved quickly. The timing could be coincidental.

But something deep in my gut, some instinct I'd learned to trust in business, was screaming that nothing about this was coincidental.

"Keep digging," I said finally. "Carefully. I don't want her to know she's being watched, but I need more information about the child."

"Of course." Victoria closed the file, but I could see the questions in her eyes. "Mr. Hart, if I may ask—what are you planning to do with this information?"

It was a fair question. What was I planning to do? Storm into Bellingham and demand answers? Confront Celeste about a child who might not even be mine? Destroy the quiet life she'd apparently built for herself based on nothing more than suspicion and a blurry photograph?

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I need to know the truth. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes. I need to know."

That night, I sat in my penthouse office with the photographs spread across my desk like tarot cards promising an uncertain future. The image of Celeste at the school pickup drew my attention again and again—the protective way she held the child, the obvious love in her posture, the life she'd built that had nothing to do with me.

A life that might include my daughter.

The thought hit me like a physical blow every time I let myself consider it. Four years. If the child was mine, I'd missed four years of her life. First steps, first words, first days of school—all of it gone while I'd been building an empire and convincing myself that the emptiness in my chest was just the price of success.

I picked up the blurry photo one more time, staring at the small figure whose face I couldn't see. Aria Whitmore. Was she just another man's child, a reminder that Celeste had moved on and found happiness without me?

Or was she the daughter I'd never known I had?

The not knowing was torture. But finding out might destroy everything—for all of us.

I set the photograph down and reached for my phone. Whatever the truth was, I couldn't live with the uncertainty anymore.

It was time to get answers, even if those answers changed everything.