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Chapter 552
Chapter 552:
She was working through a secure VPN and a commercial corporate database, running reverse-tracking queries on the registration information for the Cliffside Breeze. Line after line of ownership data filled the screen. The trail was deliberately labyrinthine — a local California LLC dissolving into a Nevada holding group, which dissolved in turn into a cluster of anonymous shell companies registered in Delaware.
The digital trail ended there. A clean, intentional severance.
June closed the laptop with a sharp snap.
The confirmation settled over her like a weight. This was not the work of a local innkeeper’s generosity or a regional marketing strategy. This was a top-tier, Wall Street-level capital operation, and it was arranged specifically around her movements.
The pre-warmed air of the suite suddenly felt airless. The smell of the truffles pressed in from all sides. She needed to get out.
𝖠𝗰𝘵𝘪𝗏𝘦 𝗰о𝗺𝗆𝘶nі𝘁y 𝘰n ѕ.co𝘮
She didn’t want to signal that she had found anything. She carefully relaxed her expression, gathered herself, changed into a low-profile beige trench coat, picked up her canvas tote, and walked out of the suite as though she had no particular purpose at all.
The hallway was empty and silent.
She descended the carpeted stairs to the lobby. The inn owner was behind the front desk. The moment she spotted June, her posture locked up and a flash of pure panic crossed her face before she could contain it.
June arranged a polite, easy smile.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice perfectly level. “I’m feeling much better. Can you recommend somewhere quiet in town to pass the afternoon p>
The relief that moved through the owner’s body was almost audible. Her shoulders dropped a full inch.
“Of course, Ms. Erickson,” she said, brightening immediately. “There’s a very well-regarded glassblowing studio on Ocean Avenue. Wonderful for a relaxing few hours p>
June thanked her and pushed through the heavy wooden doors.
The cool, salt-laced Pacific air met her face at once, cutting through the fog that had been sitting behind her eyes all morning. She walked slowly down the picturesque streets, pausing occasionally in front of boutique windows and using their reflections to scan the street behind her. A few elderly couples. Some unhurried tourists. No men in dark suits. No obvious surveillance.
The tight knots in her shoulders began, gradually, to ease.
She found the studio — a place called The Furnace. She pushed the door open and was met by a wall of radiant heat and the sharp, mineral smell of charcoal and molten sand.
The owner, a large, bearded California local, greeted her with uncomplicated warmth and invited her to try a beginner’s glassblowing session. June paid the fee without hesitation. She needed something physical and immediate to keep her mind from folding back on itself.
She pulled on the heavy heat-resistant gloves and protective goggles and took her place in front of the roaring furnace, burning at well over two thousand degrees. Using a long hollow steel pipe, she gathered a glowing, bright orange mass of molten glass from the fire. The radiant heat pushed hard against her face. She raised the pipe to her lips, ready to blow a steady, controlled breath into the glass to coax it toward the shape of a simple vase.
Then the image came without warning.