Neon Gravel Horizon Chapter Twelve: The Long Stretch East

            The bus ride from Utah to New York took three days. Arthur didn't have the Mustang, didn't have the money—he had refused the settlement check, leaving it on the table, though he had signed the NDA out of pure fear. He was traveling on the last of his own cash, sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus that smelled of floor wax and desperation.

            The American landscape rolled past the window, a blur of cornfields and truck stops. He didn't film any of it. His Leica stayed in his bag, buried under his dirty laundry.

            He felt a deep, aching hollow in his chest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Beatrice. Not the star, but the girl in the hoodie who liked her coffee too sweet and her music too loud.

            He checked his phone at every stop. The news was full of her.

            “BEATRICE RETURNS: STAR RECOVERED FROM KIDNAPPER.”

            “MARCUS ANNOUNCES NEW SEASON AND COCKTAIL TOUR FINALE IN NYC.”

            The narrative was set. He was the villain. She was the victim. And the world was moving on.

            But he couldn't move on. He kept looking at the napkin. “Find me in NYC.”

            It was a suicide mission. He had no way to get to her. She would be surrounded by security, by Marcus, by the press. And he was legally barred from even being in the same room as her.

            But as the bus crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the skyline rising like a forest of glass and steel, Arthur felt a sudden, sharp clarity.

            He had spent his whole life trying to be seen by people who didn't matter. Now, he only cared about being seen by one person.

            He got off the bus at Port Authority and walked into the cold, sharp air of New York. He had twenty dollars left and a camera he wasn't allowed to use.

            He walked to the hotel where the launch party was being held. It was a fortress. Barricades, police, and a sea of fans screaming her name.

            He stood at the back of the crowd, a ghost among the living.

            He saw her arrive. She was wearing a dress of pure silver, looking like a goddess. She didn't look happy. She looked like she was made of stone.

            Marcus was right behind her, his hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the entrance.

            Arthur reached for his camera. He didn't take a photo. He just held it, looking at her through the viewfinder one last time.

            Then, he saw something.

            Beatrice stopped. She looked at the crowd. She wasn't looking for fans. She was looking for a face.

            Her eyes swept over the hundreds of people, moving past the signs and the cameras.

            Then, she stopped.

            She looked directly at Arthur.

            For a split second, the stone mask cracked. Her lips parted, and her eyes filled with a sudden, brilliant light.

            Marcus noticed. He looked in Arthur’s direction, his expression turning to pure, murderous rage. He whispered something in Beatrice’s ear and tried to pull her away.

            But Beatrice didn't move. She raised her hand, not in a wave to the fans, but in a specific gesture—the way she had tucked her hair behind her ear in the Mustang.

            It was a signal.

            Arthur turned and ran. He knew where she would go. He knew the one place in NYC she had talked about during those long nights in the desert.

            The rooftop of the old library.