77 One way or another

**Date = 10 July**
*River disappeared hours ago, and it’s partly my (hormones’) fault.*
**Place = San Francisco (Some industrial harbor site)**
*I’m not even sure where we are.*

**POV - Enrique**

The docks always have that metallic silence at night. A different quiet. It vibrates peacefully — a faint wind that slithers between shipping containers, the distant clang of chains, a rusty seagull-scream echoing like a dying violin.

Even the streetlights flicker as if they regret being installed. The air reeks of rust and damp concrete, the kind of smell that coats the back of your throat until you want to spit it out.

This part of the industrial zone feels like the city’s unwanted organ — rotting away in silence — forgotten by everyone but rats, ghosts, and now — apparently — a man with a stalker complex.

Or a death wish.

He was at Schulz–Sonoma County Airport … making Matthew the rat. But then again, there were those other guys at the second airport … which means Shoestring could be the rat.

Or maybe they’re both working angles.

The only one we can cross off is David — no one showed up at Palo Alto Airport, which, in this world, counts as proof of innocence.

Somehow, Jackson’s guys found this dreadful location by using the number plate from Misfit’s boot. And somehow River believed he could do that.

It’s the same van as the one in the CCTV footage. The same one that followed us after the ship blew up. The one we have been looking for the whole afternoon.

Now, here it is. Quiet. Still. Just existing.

Dusty and covered in grime — it was once white, but now it’s a combination of vomit gray and baby-shit brown.

Parked crookedly under one of those flickering streetlamps, like it has been dropped from the sky by a drunk god. It just sits there — silent, still, and radiating suspicion. The kind of vehicle that practically begs someone to report it to Homeland Security. Or at the very least, burn sage around it.

My breath fogs slightly in the salty air. I shove my hands in my jacket, but not from the cold.

From dread.

“I’ve seen cleaner murder scenes,” Axel mutters. He’s not joking. We are not in the mood for humor.

Jackson doesn’t say a word. His jaw is tight, eyes locked on the van. Observing.

We keep still. Standing in the shadows. Waiting. Watching.

The small shipping outbuilding is converted into some unholy mix of apartment, surveillance lab, and hideout. Warehouse metal, scarred and peeled. The windows are plastered with newspapers, letting out a faint blush of yellow, just enough to break the darkness.

A dim light glimmers above a steel door. Rusted. Faded red. The faint smell of a microwave meal drifts through the air. And music.

One Direction — You and I.

Loud enough to be annoying. Quiet enough to be creepy.

I feel like humming along. But I don’t. Don’t dare.

Because Jackson is silent. Not his usual fury, not even his cool detachment. This is something else. Simmering. He doesn’t move. His body is rigid, that perfect statue-of-vengeance posture he has when something is wrong. Not just wrong — off.

Or when he’s silently enraged.

The kind of quiet fury that can crack bones without lifting a hand.

My stomach flips like bad carnival churros. Guilt slowly pushes up my throat.

He hasn’t spoken since we pulled up. Not one word. He hasn’t said much on the way here. Nor has he talked much at the hospital. And I know exactly what it means.

His silence is a verdict. Not final, but heavy enough to crush a soul. I can feel it settle over me like lead. Because this time, I wasn’t just a bystander. I was negligent. Fucking around.

More guilty than Marco. And Jackson knows it. We both know it.

He is fucking furious. And that anger is directed squarely at me. At Marco. Even at himself.

True, he hasn’t said a damn thing. But I can feel it — the rage radiating off my brother in waves. Not hot. Not explosive. Cold. Compressed. Dangerous. Not the kind that screams or snaps. No, this is the hazardous kind where he’s gone nuclear inside. The kind where Marco and I might get maimed if anything happened to that girl.

And we deserve it. Every second of it. Especially me.

Jackson sighs deeply, and then he moves.

“Enter the building from all sides. I need him able enough to talk, understand?” he says to Miguel. Marco, with a group of men, is covering the only other door. Miguel nods and walks away, giving instructions over his radio.

I approach the suspicious SUV as if it is going to bite me. The streetlamp buzzes, humming with silent menace. And I’m debating whether to knock or throw holy water. “Do I knock?” I ask weakly. “Maybe offer it a mint?” I try to lighten the air.

“Or maybe it knocks us out and we wake up without kidneys,” Axel mutters, halfway around the back.

Jackson ignores us. No hesitation. Yank it open with a creak that sounds far too cinematic to be legal.

From under a pile of what looks like candy wrappers, takeaway containers, and a moldy dog blanket, a familiar blonde head pops out.

“Holy shit,” I jerk back.

River sits up fully and squints at us like we’ve just interrupted a nap.

“You’re late,” she snaps.

I stagger back in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

She crosses her arms. “I left a whole clue and everything. Took you long enough.”

Jackson says nothing. But drops to his knees like he’s been sucker-punched.

River’s lower lip trembles for half a second, then she launches herself at Jackson like a heat-seeking missile.

“You took forever!” she wails into his neck. “I thought you were mad or worse — too dumb to find the clue.” I wonder if she realizes it’s not that easy to track down a number plate if you’re not part of the FBI. Jackson concocted a mere miracle.

He holds her like he may never let go. Face buried in her hair, breath shaking just once.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispers, voice cracking just slightly — just enough for me to glance over, startled.

“Am I grounded?” she mumbles against his collar. “I thought you were mad, that’s why you took so long?”

“I am not mad.”

“You look mad.” She pushes away and looks him in the eye. She’s right.

“I’m not.”

“You really look mad,” she pouts.

“He always looks mad,” Axel mumbles.

“I’m not mad,” Jackson sneers. He so is.

“She’s not wrong,” I mutter. “You look like you’re about to throw me into traffic.”

Jackson looks at me.

Not a glare. Not a death stare.

Worse.

It is disappointment. And it hits harder than anything else. I look away.

Marco runs towards us. “River … are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, climbing out of the van like a small, tired dragon, Misfit clutched against her like a therapy pillow, one shoe conspicuously missing. “I found snacks. And a taser.”

“A taser?!” Axel barks.

She looks up at him sweetly. “You think I was just hiding? You would not believe what this man has in his van. It’s kinda disgusting, but also …”

She tilts her head, theatrically considering her next words as Jackson looms over her.

“— also sort of impressive. I found so many useful things. Like the taser, string, and duct tape. Just don’t eat from the takeout boxes, by the way. He’s like a hoarding, stalking granny with bad hygiene,” she says in a chirpy voice.

Jackson’s jaw clenches so tightly I think his molars might shatter. His anger hasn’t vanished — no, it pulses in his shoulders, flickers in the furrow of his brow, radiates from him like heat off asphalt.

“His bathroom situation is … tragic.”

Marco mutters behind me, “Holy shit, kid.”

“Language,” River says primly, already stealing Jackson’s jacket for warmth. “There’s a minor present.”

Marco exhales like his lungs are cracking. Jackson stands, bunny boot still in one hand. His entire body finally seems to breathe.

Relief. Relief cracks through him like light in a storm.

Heavy and raw and full of everything he hasn’t said for the past few hours.

I let myself breathe, too. River is safe. We don’t deserve it, but she is safe.

Marco takes a deep breath, looking less panicked than he did earlier, when he thought River was gone for good. I don’t blame him. We lost her. Just long enough to picture her in a ditch somewhere.

I clear my throat where the guilt is crawling up the back of my tonsils like acid reflux.

But Jackson scowls at Marco. The look he gives him can freeze magma.

Marco straightens. “He’s in custody,” he says quickly, like it will buy him a little mercy. “The guy. We’ve got him.”

But Jackson isn’t blinking.

“You’re supposed to be inside,” he says, voice low and almost conversational — if conversations took place in hell. “You’re supposed to be leading your team.”

“I —” Marco hesitates. “I needed to know she was okay. I’m sorry. I just — needed to see her with my own eyes.”

I feel that. I understand it, actually. River has vanished into a predator’s mouth, and until you see her whole and breathing and making backhanded compliments about takeout containers, nothing else matters.

But still. The fury burning off Jackson can jump-start a dead planet.

“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” River snaps at him. “I disappeared all by myself. He was helping a nurse. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. You should try it sometime.”

Axel and I snigger and snort at the stupefaction on my twin’s face. Even Marco pops a faint smile.

“Yeah, lighten up, bro,” I say, maybe too fast.

“Lighten up —?” Jackson’s voice is sharp enough to cut through concrete. “You’re lucky she didn’t end up in a morgue while you were screwing in a closet.”

“I wasn’t —” I start, then stop, because yeah … I was. But I’m not quite sure how he knows.

Jackson’s eyes land on me briefly. Not quite a glare, but close enough to burn. Still, his hand is steady when he places it on River’s head, gently pushing back a stray piece of blonde hair.

His voice, when he speaks again, is almost calm. “Next time you feel like doing something stupid,” he says to her, “wait for me.”

Marco mumbles something about her always doing stupid stuff.

“Get inside,” Jackson says tightly.

Marco gives him a stiff nod and slips through the red door without another word.

The dark docks groan beneath the salty wind, each rusted corrugated panel and broken window whispering secrets to the ocean air. Faint fog rolls in from the water, painting everything with a ghostly shimmer. A ship’s horn wails in the distance, low and haunting, as if it mourns the souls lost to the night.

River is found — alive, safe, infuriatingly smug in the back of the van like she’d been waiting for room service.

Now, she trails behind Jackson, swaddled in his favorite leather pilot jacket, as if it is a royal cloak and she’s the queen of chaos. Her boots squeak on the wet concrete as we approach the entrance of the small building.

Miguel stands inside the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, jaw set, watching the scene with eyes that miss nothing. He gives a slight nod towards River. His relief is quieter, but just as deep.

The photographer from the airport is seated on a sad excuse for a sofa — that seems to dual purpose as a bed too. He is in his forties, maybe fifties, with graying stubble, a worn beanie, and the paranoid energy of someone who’s had too much caffeine and not enough therapy.

The ambiance of the place is not good. Overhead fluorescents flicker with all the reliability of a drunk uncle. It smells like dust, stale Ramen, cheap air freshener, and something that might have once been chicken.

River sniffs. “He lives here? Ew. It smells like a wet burrito and a sad childhood.” Still tucked close to Jackson’s side like a precious shadow.

I scan the cluttered interior — half office, half flop house, all mess. Folders and yellowed papers are scattered across a desk that looks like it has been stolen from an abandoned school. The stained sofa slumps against the wall, having given up hope years ago. Next to it is a microwave atop a file cabinet, heating some food. Harry Styles’ voice fluently blends with the buzzing hum of the oven’s operation.

“Chester Alvey,” Miguel hands Jackson an ID card, “Licensed Private Investigator.”

“Talk,” Jackson says.

Chester blinks up at him. “I’m not your enemy.” He just drops the line like bait and lets the silence chew on it.

“Then start explaining.”

Chester scratches the side of his face, clearly trying to read the room, but realizes it is all murder and no sympathy.

“I’m a PI,” he says slowly as if that hasn’t been established. “Graham Scott’s sister hired me. I wasn’t following you, I was following him.”

“Then why do you have photos of all of us?” Jackson snaps.

Chester holds up his hands. “Collateral. Sometimes people leave trails through other people.” He sighs deeply, then adds. “He’s gone. Hasn’t been home in over a month. His ship blew up. No digital footprint. Either he’s hiding or someone took him. I’m just trying to find the guy.”

Jackson narrows his eyes. “Why were you at the airport?”

Chester gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Because YOU were at the airport.”

“Ah, so you were following us,” I mutter. “Great. Why?” I ask, crossing my arms, my tone colder than the wind whipping off the bay outside.

His eyes flick between Jackson and me, but settle on the twin who looks more likely to commit murder in daylight. His gaze locks on Jackson, narrow and sharp like he’s trying to burn a hole through him. “You assaulted the man.” The words slice the air like a quiet accusation. His voice is rough, almost gravelly, like someone who’s spent a lifetime smoking stress instead of cigarettes.

Oh, right. I’ve forgotten about that. Seems Jackson breaking his ribs has consequences. Emotional ones. Investigative ones.

“So?” Jackson’s voice is ice. No apology. No flinch. He doesn’t even blink. Just stands there, his fingers resting on River’s shoulder like a warning.

The PI lifts his chin, as if weighing whether it’s worth it to press further. “You could have done more,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. He lets it hang in the air, a vague accusation draped in implication.

“You mean more than smashing his face in?” River pipes up, still swimming in the oversized leather jacket like a very smug, very sarcastic little war general. She leans against my brother’s leg, with a hand holding her bunny’s ear, and a smirk that would piss off a priest.

Jackson’s jaw tics.

Then, slowly, that twisted, carnivorous smile creeps across his face. It’s not charming. It’s not sane. It’s the kind of smile that comes right before something explodes — or someone disappears.

“You think I buried him?” His voice is quiet and crooning while he pulls a crooked, lopsided grin — one that doesn’t reach his eyes, all menace and mockery. It’s the kind of smile that suggests he might have buried worse. The yellowish light flickers above, throwing shadows over the sharp lines of his face. The scar above his brow twitches.

Chester doesn’t flinch, but something in him shrinks — his shoulders stiffen, his thumb taps nervously against his own wrist. He shrugs, but the motion’s hollow — not smug, but cautious now. His earlier bravado flickers. “I think people like you do what they think they have to do.”

I see it. Axel sees it. He’s leaning on the rusted metal doorframe, arms crossed, foot hooked behind his ankle like he’s relaxed — but he’s not. He’s watching Jackson the way you watch a grenade with the pin half-out.

Jackson leans forward just enough to make Chester tense. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “And what kind of people are we, Chester?”

Chester swallows. The microwave pings behind him. The smell of whatever sad plastic meal he nuked floods the room — fake beef, burnt cheese, a hint of regret. It breaks the tension, only slightly.

I lean against the rusted filing cabinet by the broken mini-fridge, arms crossed. I’m watching the way the man’s fingers twitch, the way his eyes flick toward the door and back — like maybe he’s exploring his options.

River fake-gags. “Ugh, what IS that? I think the cheese just screamed.” She scrunches her nose.

“That is my dinner.”

River lifts her brows. “What is it, radioactive fish surprise?”

“It’s lasagna,” he says, sounding vaguely defensive. “Microwaveable. And if you must know, yes, from the gas station.”

Marco makes a face. “Guts of steel.”

Jackson’s face doesn’t change. Not a flinch, not a twitch. He just stares at the man, like he’s trying to decide whether to blink or burn the building down. Next to me, Marco shifts uncomfortably, arms crossed tight, like he’s trying to blend into the cracked paint of the wall.

“Or worms. Hard to tell,” River huffs. “For the record, it smells better than your van. Which looks like a radioactive fungus threw up in a dumpsite.”

“You were in my van?” the PI asks, eyes narrowing.

River lifts a brow like he just admitted to owning Crocs with socks. “Sweetheart, I’ve lived in your van since you left the hospital. I deserve hazard pay. And therapy.”

Jackson exhales through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “You’re getting both,” he mutters, tugging the jacket tighter around her.

“You should see what he keeps in the glove compartment,” River adds, smugly. “It’s either a hoarder’s shrine or he’s starting a cult.”

The man’s jaw tightens. “You went through my stuff?”

River shrugs. “Your stuff was already going through a crisis.”

“Also, who pees in a bottle and lets it rest?”

A flicker of something — maybe guilt, maybe regret — moves across Chester’s face. He doesn’t say anything. Just look at the girl in the jacket, far too big for her, her messy hair tied with an elastic band that used to be on someone’s wrist.

“Don’t judge me,” Chester says weakly.

River holds up a hand. “Sir, I am nine and have standards.”

The man looks genuinely wounded. The bulb above our heads buzzes like it’s considering suicide. Outside, the wind hits the corrugated walls of the dingy office-slash-apartment, making them groan like a warning.

Chester blinks. “It’s not that bad.”

River stares at him. “There’s a sock hanging from the ceiling. A SOCK, dude. Why is it up there? What’s it gripping? What’s it seen?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Jackson says, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s still running on adrenaline and threat levels, but River’s chaos cuts through like a flame through fog.

“No, seriously,” she goes on, waving her hand dramatically like she’s presenting evidence to a jury. “Who drives a shag wagon filled with expired pudding cups and off-brand tasers?”

I clear my throat. “River, babe, you followed HIM into said shag wagon.”

“I was investigating,” she says defensively, folding her arms, lifting her chin. “Look, if he’s allowed to stalk us across state lines, I’m allowed to comment on the upholstery.”

Chester finally breaks, snapping, “It’s corduroy!”

“It’s filthy,” River corrects. “There’s a difference.”

Jackson turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like he cursed Lee for having a sister.

River hears it. “Rude. I mean,” she says, flipping her hair. “I’m the one who found the weird guy, left the clue, and rescued myself. So really … you’re welcome.”

“She’s got a point,” Miguel adds with a small smile.

Jackson processes that, still stiff, still watchful. He hasn’t let go of River since he found her. Now he gently tugs her closer and holds an arm around her small frame.

She glances up at him, blue-green eyes wide and disarmingly sweet.

“You’re really not mad at me, right?”

Jackson gives her a long look. “I haven’t decided.”

Chester buries his face in his hands. “I need a drink.”

Jackson steps forward, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I know,” the man groans.

Another low horn bellows from the harbor outside. A rat scurries across the floor. The One Direction playlist changes to ‘One Way Or Another’, which somehow makes the moment worse.

I glance around the space again. Cracked tiles. A flickering light above a wall calendar that says April, even though it’s July. The scent of salt and diesel mixes with the aroma of old takeout and the lingering scent of failed ambition. It’s a dump.

But it’s our only lead.

Jackson’s still staring at the PI, jaw tight. His arms are crossed now, too, and when Marco shifts next to him — half a step back, very minor — Jackson’s gaze flicks to him. It’s the kind of glance that makes grown men regret career choices. Marco goes very still.

“Shall I take him back to the Pit?” Marco says quickly. “To see what he knows.”

“He’s not your job,” Jackson snaps.

“I’ve gotten my job lost,” Marco replies, quieter. “I’m glad she’s okay … but I don’t deserve another chance.”

For the first time, Jackson’s expression softens just a fraction. He looks down at River, holding onto his leg like she owns it.

“You were supposed to watch her,” Jackson says. Not loud. Not sharp. But final.

Marco lowers his head slightly. “I know.”

River moves and stands between them like a little prosecutor. “Okay, for the last time, it’s not Marco’s fault. I walked away all by myself. It’s the guy who makes microwave lasagna’s fault. And I made you find him. Did I not?”

Jackson sighs, and for a flicker, the edge of his jaw softens. “Yeah, you did.”

River grins. “See? Genius.”

The PI wipes his hands on his pants, suddenly aware of how grimy his situation is.

Almost as grimy as his home.

The sofa he’s on looks like it came with a family of cockroaches. A loose board juts from the roof like a crooked tooth, and nestled in the gap is a clump of seaweed, feathers, and what might be a fish tail. A seagull’s nest.

I clock it with a glance but say nothing. Of course, there are squatters. This dump is prime-time real estate for anything not human that wants to board rent-free with excellent ocean views.

Chester’s nerves begin to fray at the edges. “Look. I didn’t hurt the kid. I didn’t even know she was in my van. I am not trying to start a war. I was hired to find Graham, and you were my only lead. His sister is worried sick. She thinks he’s in deep.”

Jackson’s eyes flicker. “Why? Did he say something to her?”

“He said people are going to die and it’s all his fault.”

Outside, the fog rolls in heavier, curling under the door like a breath held too long. The scent of sea salt and rust mixes with the burnt plastic cheese.

River leans her head against Jackson’s side and mutters, “Can we go now? It smells like armpits and expired pickles in here.”

Jackson doesn’t answer right away. He is still watching the PI like he might start interrogating him with a hammer.

But then he exhales slowly, nods at Miguel, rubs River’s back once, and says, “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

“Hey, what about me?” Charles shouts as we walk out the red door.

“Oh, you’re coming with me,” Miguel chirps at him. “You’re going to tell me everything you know.” There’s a slight pause, sugarcoated with menace. “One way or another.”

Just as Zayn’s voice slinks through the cracked radio:

‘One day, maybe next week, I’m gonna meet ya …’

The lyric hangs there, too on-the-nose, like the universe is mocking us. Because that’s exactly what this feels like — a game of tag with a ghost. A promise with no date.

Maybe we’ll find who’s behind this. Maybe we won’t. Maybe next week. Definitely one day.

The door slams behind us, slicing the song in half — like even fate isn’t sure how the chorus ends. The fog has thickened — soupy and silver, curling around the Jeep’s tires like it’s listening. Watching.

Jackson stops walking. He squints into the mist.

Then something darts across the road. Could’ve been a shadow. A stray dog. A ghost. A trick of the light. Or … someone running.

Jackson doesn’t flinch. He just opens the back door, helps River in, and mutters, “We’ll get them.” As if he’s answering my previous mindset.

“One way or another.”