The man at the table watched their every move carefully. His gaze was cold and focused, but now there was a sense of weariness in his voice, as well as a deep respect for their resolve. He spoke slowly, choosing each word carefully, as if trying to convey the seriousness of what was happening.
"The subject of your mission is Dr. Louis Hastings. He works at a children's hospital, and although his reputation is impeccable at first glance, there are serious suspicions regarding his connections to the Church of Satan," he began, not taking his eyes off the documents in front of him. "We have received information that Hastings maintains contacts with a man named Dr. Baselard. However, what is even more interesting is that this Baselard... he seems to exist and not exist at the same time. No one has ever seen him face to face, and his existence raises many questions.
Jerome listened, his mind racing. The task was becoming more difficult. Becoming friends with someone involved in such murky business was a tall order. But the man they were about to work with was more than just a mysterious figure. He was a link in a chain of something much bigger and more dangerous than Jerome could have imagined.
The man at the table continued, his voice becoming a little more tense.
"This so-called Doctor Baselard may be just an illusion, the result of Hastings's mental illness, but if so, why do all the clues lead to him? His name appears in all sorts of documents, and even stranger, his notes and the diaries he leaves behind contain descriptions of people no one seems to have ever met.
Jerome, feeling the storm of thoughts in his head not subsiding, looked at Delia once again. She was standing next to him, her attention completely focused on the man's story, but Jerome could have sworn that she was thinking about something at that moment. There was no expression of fear on her face, only interest and confidence. She was ready for this, as always, and this gave him strength.
"How do we get into this Hastings's circle?" Delia asked, her voice even, though there was a slight tension in her eyes.
The man at the table turned to face her, his gaze cold but assessing her determination.
"He is a respected figure in medical circles, especially among parents. It will be difficult to get close to him directly, but we assume that he attends special closed events where you can find him in an informal setting. Jo, you will have to join his circle. As a specialist, you can offer your help, for example, in organizing medical projects or consultations. In your case, it will look like a sincere desire to help. You can become part of his network."
Jerome felt his nervousness increase. It was more than just anxiety. The mission they had been given was dangerous, and not just physically. Working with people like this was always a game on the edge, where every move and every word could be decisive. He knew they could get caught in a trap from which there was no escape if they were not extremely careful.
The man at the desk wasted no time in taking several photographs out of a folder and laying them out in front of them. He was a man who could do things quickly and efficiently, without losing his focus for a second.
"Here's the target," he said, pointing to one of the photographs. It showed a man in a formal business suit, with a cold, stern face and a piercing gaze. There was no warmth in his eyes, only calculation and cold determination. "Your relationship with him will decide everything. Do you understand?"
Jerome felt his heart take a sharp breath and then return to its normal rhythm. He nodded, but something inside him was clenching. The man in the photograph was not ordinary. There was something frightening in his gaze, like he could see right through you, and it raised a wave of doubt in Jerome.
Delia sat across from him, her gaze focused. She studied the photo carefully, her fingers slowly sliding over the surface of the photograph, as if getting to know the man all over again. She showed no fear or hesitation. It was clear. Delia was a professional.
"I understand," she replied, not taking her eyes off the photograph. There was not the slightest note of hesitation in her voice. She was confident as always. Not only did she understand what needed to be done, but she was prepared to do it, despite all the danger.
Jerome couldn't help but notice the confidence in her face, in her eyes. She could go through anything without breaking. But something inside Jerome stirred. His own uncertainty about the mission was nagging at him. He would have preferred that they walk this path together, shoulder to shoulder, rather than alone. But sharing the path was not always easy.
He continued to watch Delia, feeling how she was almost absorbed in her analysis of the situation. Her gaze was cool and professional, like someone who knows her target and is ready to act. It was both fascinating and terrifying.
He tried to gather his thoughts, to bring himself back to reality. To the fact that they weren't just in this room, but on the threshold of serious business, where every movement, every word, even a glance - everything mattered. Jerome knew that Delia could handle this, but he wasn't sure that he was ready. He couldn't leave her alone in this.
"Are you sure we can do this?" he asked quietly, unable to keep his doubts inside any longer. He turned to the man at the table, but his voice was directed at Delia, as if he were looking to her for support, for confirmation.
The man at the table looked up, but his face remained impassive. He saw their exchange of glances, but did not intervene.
Delia turned to Jerome and paused for a moment. Her gaze was soft, but it still held the same strength it always did. She realized he was looking in her eyes for reassurance, because despite her calm appearance, she, too, was not without doubts.
"We'll do it, Jerome," she said quietly but confidently. "We've always done it, and nothing will change that now. We just need to trust each other."
Jerome met her gaze, and in that moment, all his worries eased a little. She was right. This was exactly what they needed to do. They had always trusted each other, and this mission was another chance to prove it.
He nodded, trying to swallow his uncertainty.
"Okay," he said, "then let's get started."
The man at the table nodded with satisfaction, as if confirming their readiness, and then continued with a slight smile in his voice:
"Excellent. Your actions will decide everything. Start by infiltrating his social circle. Jo Tusso, you will be at the center of events, and Delia, as I said, should record everything. And let Jerome keep track of what happens. Everything that is important will be in these moments, in these details."
Jerome felt the man's words crashing down on him, and his body tensed involuntarily. Everything was becoming more concrete. This was no longer just a conversation, no longer just a theoretical problem. Everything they did was now connected to reality, to actions, to consequences. Everything that mattered would be in these details-in what they would or would not notice.
He glanced back at Delia. Her face was calm, focused as always, but in her eyes he saw that spark that said she was ready. She always was.
"Are you sure?" he asked, unable to resist showing his concern. Despite Delia's confidence, there was still a certain worry in himself, in his head. What if they made a mistake? What if they noticed something important too late?
Delia looked at him, her gaze softly touching his face, and she nodded.
"Yes, Jerome, I'm sure," she said, as if answering not only his question but all his hesitations. "We'll do it. Everything will be all right."
Her words, as always, sounded so confident that Jerome couldn't help but feel relieved. In her presence, his worries usually retreated, and now, finally, he could relax a little. Of course, everything was difficult, and everything remained on the edge, but Delia was there. They always managed.
The man at the desk, meanwhile, opened a new file on his tablet and began typing quickly. Jerome watched him as he shuffled through the files with ease, taking notes without distraction. It all happened so clearly, so methodically, that it seemed as if this was not a discussion of an important mission, but simply a job that needed to be done. No emotion, no sense of importance, no excitement. It all seemed so... mundane to the man sitting in front of them.
"Louis Hastings," he continued, ignoring their silence. His voice was calm, but there was a lingering confidence in it. "As I said, he is a doctor at a children's hospital. But a doctor does not mean healthy. His mind is clearly sick, as evidenced by his contacts with this incomprehensible Doctor Baselard.
Jerome frowned, feeling his doubts deepen. He couldn't quite figure out what the man meant. Baselard-the name sounded alien, mysterious, something that shouldn't exist in reality. Why were they still looking for a man no one had ever seen?
"Baselard? Have you seen him?" Jerome asked, trying to break through the fog.
The man at the desk didn't answer right away. He continued typing information on his tablet, but he seemed accustomed to such questions. There was no irritation in his voice, only familiar weariness.
"No," he finally answered. "We haven't seen it. Our best agents who worked on this case found nothing but traces that disappear at the very last moment. What we do know is that the name 'Baselard' is connected to a specific object – a dagger."
Jerome raised his eyebrows, trying to process the man's words. It seemed incredible, but he spoke with such calm, as if he were discussing something completely ordinary.
"A dagger?" he asked, not hiding his bewilderment. "So all this time you've been looking for a man no one has seen, and he may not be a man at all, but an object?"
The man nodded without losing his composure, as if such questions were part of his daily work.
"Yes, that's right," he said, his voice level and emotionless. "The name of this mysterious type is the same as that of a dagger that was common in Europe from the first half of the 13th century. The dagger took its name from the Swiss city of Basel. The weapon had a symbolic meaning, and in some circles it is still considered an important artifact.
Jerome felt his brain begin to strain. He stood there, unable to tear himself away from the strange and confusing words.
"So you're saying that Baselard is not a person, but some kind of historical artifact? And this whole Hastings thing is nothing more than fiction?"
The man continued, ignoring his surprise.
- Not exactly. We assume that Louis Hastings may not have invented Baselard, but based on his roots, his Swedish grandmother, he constructed something that could exist in his imagination. It is quite possible that he himself does not understand that his "friend" is just a figment of his imagination, caused by his mental state.
Jerome stood there, still trying to figure out what this all meant. If Baselard was just a hoax, then why was it such a crucial part of the investigation? What if the whole case was built on myth and illusion?
"Wait," Delia interjected, her voice calm but genuinely interested. "So you think Hastings might have some ulterior motive that's directly related to his background and family history?"
The man nodded, his gaze becoming more focused.
"Exactly. Childhood trauma can give rise to such fantasies, especially if the person has strong ties to a particular culture or historical context. Hastings may believe that he is on some sort of mission related to Baselard and this dagger, even if it is just a product of his sick imagination."
Jerome felt his mind getting tangled up in this tangle of riddles again. He didn't know what he thought about it, but something in his chest still demanded answers.
"So what do we do about it? How do we find Baselard, or at least find out what it means to Hastings?" Jerome asked, realizing that this wasn't just an investigative mission, but a full-blown shadow hunt.
The man at the table put the tablet aside and finally stood up, his face becoming more serious.
"This is your assignment. And you are to find any traces that can lead to this... Baselard. Once you get to Hastings, you will be able to understand how his connections to this man (or, perhaps, this object) affect his actions. And if you find the dagger, it may be the key to everything."
Delia rose from the table again and, without looking at Jerome, headed for the door. She was ready to move on without being distracted by unnecessary emotions, but Jerome saw her face tighten slightly with the weight of the work ahead. He approached her, trying to collect his thoughts.
"Delia," he said quietly, "what do you think this all means? The dagger, the Baselard... It all seems like some kind of nightmare.
Delia paused at the threshold, but said nothing. But the boy noticed that her gaze was firm, as if she already knew what to do. There was no fear or doubt on her face, only determination. Jerome felt his own nervousness begin to subside, as if Delia's confidence, despite all her outward restraint, was being transmitted to him. He himself was no longer so sure of himself, but now, looking at her, he felt that he could handle anything.
He sighed, trying to push away the last of the doubts that still stirred in his mind. But even in this troubled world, full of hidden figures and deceptive realities, Delia was an anchor. She knew how to handle situations, even when they seemed confusing and dangerous to him.
"Well then," he said, turning to the group. "Let's go."
Jo Thueson and Harvey Dean nodded silently and followed him. Jerome's every step echoed in his chest, reminding him of the gravity of their mission. Even though they had just left that strange room filled with desperate tension, Jerome knew they had to be ready now.
The hallway was empty, and the shadows from the low lamps cast a glimmer of light on their path, giving the whole thing a special, almost phantasmagorical feel. Harvey followed behind, his steps firm but with a certain lightness, as if he had been in similar situations many times before. Jo, on the other hand, looked intent, her eyes scanning every corner, every mark on the walls, as if she herself were part of the game but didn't want to admit it.
"What do you think of Hastings?" Jerome asked, breaking the silence.
He knew they were all preoccupied with the task at hand, but he needed to sort out some priorities.
Jo turned to him, her gaze penetrating as if she was trying to parse every nuance of his question.
"It's hard to say," she began, her voice calm but with a hint of anxiety. "This all reminds me not just of psychopathology, but of a whole mind game. You know that such people exist. They easily manipulate reality, make it their own. But if Baselard really exists only in his head, then its influence on the world must be much more subtle and dangerous. After all, if he can make Louis believe in his existence, then he can surely control others, too, forcing them to see fiction as truth. This is no longer just a mental illness – it's a weapon.
Harvey, standing a little behind him, snorted and wiped his lips with the tip of his finger, as if he was a little tired of all this. He cut off Jo's musings with a short, caustic remark.
"Louis Hastings is a complete psychopath," Harvey muttered, looking with annoyance at the photographs laid out before them. "A schizophrenic whose place is not as a doctor, but in a psychiatric ward. This 'Baselard' of his is just a glitch, that's all."
Jerome watched Harvey closely, but something about his certainty was causing him to resist. Harvey was right that Louis Hastings might just be a psycho, but Jerome couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. Baselard, his strange existence, this whole game of reality and imagination... It didn't add up to a picture that Jerome could easily understand.
He glanced at Delia, who walked ahead of them, not looking back or paying attention to their conversation. There was no sign of hesitation in her bearing, and Jerome, though he knew her to be a person not given to weakness, still felt her confidence as if it strengthened his own resolve. She had always been strong, and her silence at the moment seemed far more convincing to him than Harvey's words.
"Delia," he said quietly, rising next to her, "do you think this is all just... nonsense?"
Delia continued to walk forward, her steps even, as if everything around her was still familiar to her. She did not immediately respond, but then her gaze unexpectedly met his.
"No, Jerome," her voice was calm, without the slightest hint of doubt. "But we can't afford to trust just one opinion. Sometimes the most obvious things are deceiving. I know how you feel, but if we're going to understand what's going on, we're going to have to be smarter than that."
Her words calmed him, but they still left a heavy feeling in his heart. He knew Delia was right. All they had to do was watch Louis' every move, be alert to any details that might reveal his true colors.
Meanwhile, Harvey, who had noticed that they had both gone ahead, caught up with them.
"We need to move faster," he said, picking up his pace slightly. "Give yourself a task. Let's start by finding out who Louis is really talking to. Who else could be connected to this Baselard?"
Jerome nodded, but his thoughts kept returning to that strange name. Baselard. The man, if there was a man at all, who seemed to exist only in Louis Hastings's head. Or maybe it wasn't a man at all, but some kind of shadow, a ghost that was manipulating the doctor's mind. Delirium? Or was it something important, as the man at the desk had said? Unsure of the answer, Jerome tried to focus on the task at hand.
In any case, they had to get from Civitavecchia to Rome. He hadn't forgotten that. To do that, they had to get to one of the old railway stations where trains left for the capital.
"Ready?" Harvey asked, looking around at them. He seemed tense, but there was something else in his eyes-determination, a readiness for action. His figure, arms crossed over his chest, stood in the dark corner as if he had always been part of this environment.
"Let's go," Jerome said, trying to push aside all the doubts that were swirling around in his head. He couldn't afford to lose focus. They had a job to do, like they always did.
Delia nodded silently, her steps sure and precise as they walked out of the building. Jerome knew she was in her element when things went according to plan. She was their hidden strength, the person who was never the center of attention, but always made sure the plan worked.
The walk from the building to the train station was short, but Jerome felt his thoughts slipping away from reality. Everything he saw around him was just a backdrop for his thoughts. What if Baselard really existed? What if Louis was not just a victim of the disease, but part of something bigger? Maybe he was some kind of puppet in a game they were all somehow caught up in.
As they walked through the narrow streets, past shops and cafes, pretending to be just tourists, Jerome couldn't shake the feeling that this city was hiding much more than it seemed at first glance.
When they finally reached the station, the train was already ready to depart. Darkness covered the platform, and only dim light illuminated their faces as they boarded the carriage.
"We'll know what to do next in Rome," Harvey said, glancing quickly at their companions. He sat down opposite Jerome and crossed his arms, as if preparing for some difficult negotiations.
"Okay, so we find this Hastings guy and start digging," Jerome said, but his voice lacked the confidence that usually came from him. Baselard's voice still echoed in his head, like an echo of some unknown reality. Every time he tried to focus on the task at hand, his thoughts wandered away again-to this mythical doctor, to connections he might have with Louis, or to Louis himself and his twisted and dangerous world.
Delia sat across from him, silently studying his face. She was never one for words, and now her gaze was as calm as ever. She didn't ask questions, didn't try to figure out what was going on in Jerome's head. She simply waited for him to collect his thoughts and take his place in the overall picture.
Harvey, noticing that Jerome was not in his usual state, frowned and glared at him with a look that seemed to burn. Jerome could not help but feel the heavy gaze of the Russian, but he knew that it was unlikely to find support. Harvey was not known for his tolerance, especially for those who did not meet his standards.
"You're not the main player here, Jerome," Harvey said, crossing his arms. His words were direct, unvarnished, and Jerome knew at once that they were as much a warning as an assessment.
"I..." Jerome opened his mouth, but couldn't find the right words to object. He knew Harvey was right. He was neither an expert in this matter, nor a seasoned operative like his companions. His place here was more as an observer. But despite this, something inside him stubbornly resisted this role.
Harvey continued:
"You shouldn't be calling the shots. You're way out of our league," Harvey said, his voice cold and direct. "I wish you wouldn't tell us your theories about Baselard. You're making up too much. Jo and I will work, and you just keep an eye on the situation."
Jerome paused, his chest tightening at the words. He didn't know what to say, because maybe Harvey was right. He wasn't a professional, he wasn't as experienced as Jo or Harvey. He had nothing to rely on in this world except his feelings and intuition, which were feeling increasingly irrelevant.
But Harvey's words kept echoing in his head. You're out of their league.
Jerome looked at Delia, who walked silently ahead of them, and felt his chest tighten and his palms grow sweaty. Every word Harvey said cut like a knife, and there was no doubt in his eyes. He continued:
"You're filling her head with nonsense. She's already focused enough on her role. Can't you see how she works? Everything you tell her is making it hard for her to concentrate. We can't afford any distractions, okay?"
It was as if Harvey's words were a death sentence, they were piercing Jerome, and he didn't know how to respond. Every nerve, every cell in his body was protesting against it. He knew he wasn't up to par, but he didn't need to be put down. He tried to sort through his feelings, but all these thoughts were jumbled together, giving him no peace.
Harvey noticed Jerome clenching his fists, but he didn't stop.
"Did you understand what I said? Delia is important to the mission, but you are not. If I hear one more word from you about her, I will do everything to send you back to New York, to your mother. Your place here is not next to us, but thousands of kilometers from here."
Jerome stood rooted to the spot, his shoulders slumped and his breathing heavy. He felt his throat tightening, pressing unbearably against his chest. He didn't know what to say, or maybe he didn't want to. All he could do was remain silent and swallow the sting that kept coming with every word Harvey said.
And when he finally decided that enough was enough, he could leave it behind, Delia added her words.
"They're already waiting for Jerome at the kindergarten," she said without turning around or slowing down.
She walked with such confident steps that her words seemed light and almost fearless, as always when she was in her element.
Jerome felt his cheeks flush slightly. Her words were sharp, and although she didn't sound mean, there was a hint of mockery in her tone. But most importantly, she had touched him. He seemed ready to take it as a joke, but there was something in her voice that cut him to the core.
"You..." Jerome started to say something, but stopped.
What could he say? She had always been like this, always able to make him feel small and insignificant. And now he was trapped in the same way again.
"What?" the girl continued, not hiding her irony, turning her head, but not slowing down. "Do you really want to tell me that you warned everyone that you would give up everything in order to be with me? Of course not! I hid my passion until the very end! And because of you, your parents, I think, have set all of New York on its ears, and my dad is definitely being pestered about the last time he had the pleasure of seeing you!"
Her voice was cold and implacable, with the same old mockery that always confused Jerome. It seemed as if everything that had happened between them in that office where they had received their instructions had been nothing more than an illusion, some kind of dream that was already dissipating, leaving behind only residual feelings. The kiss, the declaration of love, those moments of intimacy that he had treasured in his memory like precious stones - all of it now seemed like some kind of misunderstanding.
Jerome looked at Delia, who walked forward without turning around, as if there were no words between them, no feelings that had so recently connected them. She moved with the same confidence that always existed, as if there was nothing that could stop her, and Jerome, feeling his insides tighten again, realized that this moment was not just a failure. It was the beginning of something new, something he could not control.
Instead of discussing her feelings or talking about what had happened, Delia kept walking. She seemed oblivious to his silence and his internal struggle. When she looked at him from a distance, there was no affection or understanding in her gaze, only detachment.
"You don't even understand how much you irritate me," she said, her tone as harsh as a knife. "You're always fussing over this childish romanticism of yours, building up some illusions for yourself, and then you think that everyone around you should adapt to your fantasies. Everyone's already sick of you."
The words hit him like cold rain, washing away the last of his defenses. He felt his chest tighten, and he didn't know how to react at that moment. She had told him everything he was afraid to hear. He was weak. He was not a man to rely on. He had put too much hope in her, too much faith that something could change.
"I..." he started again, but stopped. He didn't want to say anything more. Whatever he said, she just couldn't understand.
Delia stopped and finally turned around, her eyes glittering and devoid of any sympathy.
"Well?" her voice sounded dry, without its former warmth, "are you going to stand there like a pillar, or will you continue walking?"
Jerome didn't answer right away. He stood there, thinking, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. He wanted to believe that their mutual confession wasn't a lie. He wanted to believe that she wasn't just using him as a means to an end, but her words and actions said otherwise.
"I'm coming," he answered quietly, feeling his voice, as if too foreign to him, echoing down the street. He took a step forward, but something inside him slowed his actions, as if not allowing him to move freely.
Delia sighed and turned to Jerome and Harvey with relief, her gaze as cold and determined as ever. She took a step forward without turning around and with a confidence that was clear in her voice, she said:
"If you want, you can stay with us, but only as an observer. We are here to work. So, if you are ready, be quiet and watch the process."
Her words hung in the air, and it didn't take long for Jerome to feel their weight. He seemed to be eclipsed by her confident posture, by her gaze, which at that moment was cold and distant. It was as if she had fenced herself off from everything that was happening, leaving him alone, among these people and tasks that were alien to him.
Jerome didn't answer right away. He stood there frozen, his mind racing, trying to figure out what to do now. But the words he wanted to say were stuck somewhere inside, unable to find a way out. He felt his heart tightening, and he knew he couldn't be part of their game, their world, anymore. He was an observer, but that feeling gave him neither peace nor satisfaction.
Harvey remained quiet as always, but there was something in his gaze that immediately made Jerome feel useless in this matter. Harvey shook his head slightly and exhaled, as if not surprised by her words.
"Do you understand?" he asked dryly, no longer expecting an answer. "We work, and you watch. Less talk, more action."
Jerome finally nodded. He felt his throat tighten with frustration. But he couldn't argue. He couldn't say that Delia was wrong, that they needed him too, that he wasn't just an observer. He didn't know who he was on this team anymore, and that was why he was silent. He felt like his place here was no longer at the table with them, not next to them in their fight. He was just a shadow, watching what was happening.
When they reached the door of the car, Delia sat up straight in the front seat, as if she had made her decision. She didn't even glance at Jerome as he settled into the backseat of the car, feeling as if his body had become part of this gray, invisible background that no one noticed. Up front, behind the wheel, Delia sat, focused and impenetrable as always. Harvey settled in next to her, casting only quick, distant glances at Jerome, as if assessing how well he suited himself to the role of silent observer. The car moved slowly, its wheels sliding along the night road, and everything around it was swallowed by silence.
Jerome's gaze wandered across the glass, the lights of the city streets flickering behind them, reflected in his eyes. He didn't know where they were going, didn't know what awaited them. All he knew was that Delia was here, in front of him, and he couldn't reach her, couldn't be the one there again. All he could do was be a shadow in her life, watch her actions, record her as she carried out her mission. He couldn't ask more of her. He couldn't ask more of himself.
"Do you know what we need to do?" Harvey asked shortly, without looking back, his voice direct, as if breaking from the tense silence of the car.
Delia nodded, her attention on the road. She looked calm and confident, knowing exactly what was coming. Jerome hated to admit it, but he had to: Delia was playing this game, and he was only a part of it on her terms.
"Yes," she said, her voice devoid of emotion, just the fact. "We need to find out who's behind Hastings. Everything else is small stuff. I'll work with his entourage, looking for weaknesses. Harvey, you'll need to follow his connections, find where and how he hides his actions. Jerome, you'll stay in the background and watch. Nothing more."
The sound of her words was, as always, definite and clear. For her, there were no unnecessary details, only goals and objectives. Jerome could only remain silent, agree and watch.
The car continued to move along the night streets, its wheels sliding dully on the asphalt, interrupted only by the occasional flash of street lamps. The whole situation outside the window seemed strangely detached - the lights of the city flickered in the darkness, like a mosaic in the silent night. Jerome sat in the shadows, absorbed in his thoughts, trying to break free from the incomprehensible state that haunted him. Everything around him seemed important, but at the same time empty and inexplicable.
Suddenly the car slowed down and stopped at a night station. The walls of the place were covered in dirty graffiti, and one of the shop windows looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a long time. The station was almost empty, only a few couples of people wandered between the columns, talking in half whispers, and uniformed employees ran from one end of the platform to the other.
Delia abruptly turned off the engine. The car sank into silence again, which at this point seemed even more silent than before. Jerome felt the tension in the air increase, and despite the silence, something clicked inside him.
"We're here," Delia said, glancing at Harvey and Jerome through the rearview mirror. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes were relentless. "We need to make a move. This place is connected to Hastings. He comes here often to meet people. He may be hiding his activities here."
Harvey nodded and climbed out of the car first. He looked calm, almost cool, as always. When he stood on the ground, his silhouette merged with the night city, lost in its shadows. Jerome sat for a while longer, trying to swallow the tension that was building up inside him.
"Are you coming?" Delia asked without turning around. Her voice was as calm as ever, but there was an underlying urgency to it.
Jerome glanced at her. Her face remained impassive, but for him, that look was like a mirror he didn't want to look into. He knew it was too late, that their path didn't lead to what he wanted to find, but he had no other choice. He couldn't stop. Listening to her words, he realized that he would become just an observer again. How could he think of anything else?
"Yes," he said, getting ready to get out of the car and swaying with excitement.