Chapter 2 - Ghosts in the Pacific Northwest
My apartment felt alien that night. I sat at my desk, surrounded by old sketchbooks and dusty photograph albums. For eight years, I had convinced myself that my night with Camila was a beautiful, fleeting fluke—a miracle that happened once and evaporated into the fog of Seattle.
I pulled up my sleeve, staring at the faint blue ink of the compass on my forearm. The needle was split down the middle, pointing toward a fractured cardinal mark. I had drawn it to signify that even when life shattered your directions, you could still find a way home.
I opened my laptop and typed the name into the search engine: Montgomery family Seattle.
I spent hours wading through social registries, corporate acquisitions, and high-society tabloids. The Montgomery name belonged to one of the most powerful timber and real estate dynasties in the Pacific Northwest. At the apex stood Arthur Montgomery, a ruthless patriarch whose hedge funds controlled half the city's waterfront.
And then I found her.
In a society column dated seven years ago: Camila Montgomery, daughter of billionaire Arthur Montgomery, makes rare public appearance after extended private sabbatical.
My breath hitched. The woman in the high-resolution photo was unmistakable—the soft curve of her jaw, the haunting emerald eyes, the dark hair falling in delicate waves across her shoulders. But unlike the girl who had sat across from me in a dim diner eight years ago wearing a worn denim jacket, this Camila wore a tailored pearl gown and a look of hollow, unyielding isolation.
I scrolled further. There was no public record of her children. No marriage announcements. No mention of triplets. The Montgomery empire kept its secrets behind impenetrable walls of non-disclosure agreements, private security, and ironclad wealth.
I remembered the SUV’s license plate. I had memorized the digits as it sped away from the park. Calling in a favor from an old college friend who worked at the vehicle registry, I waited anxiously until my phone finally buzzed with a text.
Vehicle registered to: Montgomery Heritage Holding Trust. Primary address: The Pines Estate, Mercer Island.
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I packed a small canvas bag, grabbed my jacket, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Eight years ago, I was an broke illustrator with nothing to offer except a sketched napkin and an open heart. Today, I was an established architect, but standing on the precipice of this truth, I felt just as helpless as I had that dawn in Seattle.
I wasn't going to let her vanish again.
