Ray Maya
The mirror didn’t lie. That was the problem.
I stood there, motionless, my palms braced on the cold porcelain sink, glaring into the reflection of a man I barely recognized anymore.
Dark stubble shadowed my jaw, more rugged than I usually allowed, and my eyes—normally sharp, focused—were bloodshot and dull with frustration. I’d slept maybe three hours last night. The same as the night before. And the one before that.
Because I was chasing ghosts.
Again.
A sigh rattled from my chest, bitter and sharp as I reached for the towel and wiped the sweat from the back of my neck. Another dead end. Another lead gone cold. Another middle-aged woman who wasn’t my mother. Another man who had the same eyes but not the same blood.
"Fuck," I muttered, balling the towel in my fist and slamming it onto the counter.
Why did it feel like I could find every runaway teenager, every cheating husband, every corporate rat hiding money in offshore accounts—but not my own damn parents? Why did it seem like I could solve the world’s puzzles except the one that actually mattered to me?
The one that birthed me.
I leaned closer to the mirror. The overhead light buzzed faintly above, flickering like it couldn’t quite handle the rage simmering beneath my skin. I stared into my own eyes and all I saw was exhaustion—and fury.
"You’re a goddamn joke," I whispered at my reflection.
I wanted to punch the glass. To see it shatter, spider-web cracks fracturing my face into broken pieces that matched the way I felt inside.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I closed my eyes.
Inhaled. Exhaled.
Again.
Because rage doesn’t solve anything. I’d learned that the hard way.
Just as I started to get a grip, my phone buzzed loudly from the bed behind me. The vibration echoed off the tiled bathroom walls, sharp and insistent.
I opened my eyes slowly, my jaw tight, and pushed away from the counter. My bare feet padded against the cool floor as I stepped into the bedroom and picked up the phone.
Unknown Number.
Not uncommon. Work calls came in all the time from random numbers.
But something about this one felt…different.
Still, I answered.
“Yeah?”
There was a pause—half a beat.
Then a voice crackled through the speaker, low, feminine, and so damn confident it practically strutted.
“Am I speaking to Ronny?”
The tone made my brows lift. Cool. Crisp. Full of that I don’t give a fuck who you are, just do what I say energy.
“Yeah. Who’s this?” I asked, voice measured, curious.
“Good. Meet me tomorrow. Ray Maya. 3PM. I have a job for you. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, the call ended.
That was it.
No name. No explanation. No fucking manners.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, blinking once, twice, trying to decide if that had actually happened.
I looked around like someone might be able to confirm it for me.
Ray Maya? That was the little bar by the pier, right? Quiet place. Perfect place for people who didn't like the crowd.
And who the hell did this mystery woman think she was, calling me like I worked for her?
My lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of amusement wrapped in disbelief.
“Okay then,” I muttered. “Somebody woke up with a death wish.”
Still holding the phone, I dropped onto the edge of the bed. I stared at the blank screen, scrolling through my mental list of possible clients.
No one came to mind.
Hell, I’d had all kinds of jobs over the years. Surveillance. Background checks. Missing persons. And more than a few revenge favors that skirted the legal line.
But never—and I mean never—had anyone spoken to me like that.
Not even the mob wife who wanted her husband tailed in Miami.
I tossed the phone onto the mattress, letting it bounce twice before landing facedown near the pillows. Then I fell back beside it, arms spread wide, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The fan above rotated slowly, making a soft clicking sound like it was tired of spinning.
Just like me.
I stared up at nothing, the woman’s voice replaying over and over in my head. Cool. Commanding. Sharp as a knife.
She didn’t ask me if I was free. She didn’t care if I was busy. She didn’t say please or offer payment or give a damn if I showed up or not.
She told me what to do.
And for some reason…
I kind of wanted to see who the hell she was.
I exhaled through my nose, one arm flung over my eyes.
“Ray Maya. 3PM.”
I repeated it to myself like a threat. Like a dare.
The woman had audacity, I’d give her that.
And maybe I should ignore it. Maybe I should go back to digging through old case files and DNA results and adoption agency red tape. Maybe I should focus on what actually mattered.
But instead... I found myself wondering.
Who was this woman?
What did she want?
And why did it feel like whatever was coming… wasn’t just another job?
I didn’t move. Just lay there, staring into the shadows crawling across the ceiling as night fell.
I told myself I hadn’t decided.
That I might not go.
That I had better things to do.
But the truth?
I already knew I’d be there.
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