He had never thought that either of them might co back into play. Why would they? They had no clue who he was, what he had done, or even that he existed in their dad’s life.
Alexander went back to his desk and opened his laptop quickly, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
For the next four hours, he dug through all sorts of databases: university records, immigration files, governnt docunts, and social dia. He looked for every digital trail he could find.
He searched for "Ayla Marcus Alston." Nothing ca up.
He searched "Ayla Alston." Still nothing.
Every search ca back empty. No records. No matches. No connection to Marcus Alston at all.
What he did find was Ayla Monroe. Born in Turkey, she’d lived there her whole life and was studying computer science. Her record was clean, and her background seed totally normal.
There was no link to Marcus, no ties to the past, and no connection to him.
Alexander leaned back in his chair, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease up a bit.
It wasn’t her. Emma’s friend wasn’t Ayla Alston.It was just a coincidence, so girl from Turkey with the sa first na.
Relief washed over him. It wasn’t her. Just a Turkish girl nad Ayla who happened to be the sa age, studying computer science, and running into his daughter.
Just as Alexander was about to close his laptop, sothing nagged at him.
The hospital records. He had breezed past them before, too focused on the na search. But now, with the imdiate panic fading, he caught onto sothing.
They noted severe exhaustion and stress, along with so recent trauma that wasn’t detailed. Previous dical history: records missing, supposedly lost, or never digitized in Turkey.
It felt a bit too convenient. Records that couldn’t be verified. A past suspiciously empty.
Alexander’s jaw tightened up. It could be nothing; Turkey’s digitization of dical records was pretty hit or miss, especially for people from smaller towns. Lots of folks have gaps in their dical histories.
But it could also an sothing.
He pulled up the university’s security footage from yesterday’s orientation, using channels he’d rather not explain. He found the lecture hall and spotted Emma’s distinctive blonde hair.
Next to her was a girl with brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She was looking down, so her face was partly hidden from the cara. He zood in as much as the resolution allowed.
The outline. The shape of her face. The way she carried herself was too familiar.
It wasn’t certain. Ayla Alston had been a kid the last ti he saw her, if he even saw her at all. People changed. Faces grew up. Features shifted.
This could be anyone.
But then she turned her head a bit, and he got a look at her eyes, dark brown, really deep brown, showing so caution, a guarded vibe that seed way too mature for soone so young.
Marcus’s eyes. How could he forget those eyes?
"Damn it," Alexander muttered.
He leaned back, his mind racing with options. The database listed her as Ayla Monroe. The evidence pointed to coincidence. Still, his gut, trained from years of dealing with deception and survival, told him sothing was off.
If this was Ayla Alston using a fake identity, it ant soone had put a lot of effort into hiding who she really was. This was professional-level stuff. It suggested she either knew sothing important or had soone looking out for her.
If she got close to Emma, questions would definitely co up. Connections would be made. The well-crafted lies about Emma’s background could start to fall apart.
But if he pulled Emma away from this friendship without solid proof, she’d want answers. She’d question his judgnt and start to see cracks in the perfect dad image he had built up for years.
It was a calculated risk either way.
Alexander made up his mind. He would gather more info before doing anything. He would keep an eye on things, wait, and either back up or dismiss his hunches with solidfacts instead of paranoia.
He pulled out a burner phone from his desk drawer, one of several he kept for when he needed to keep things on the down-low. He dialed a number he rembered.
It rang a couple of tis before a rough voice picked up. "Yeah?"
"I need surveillance," Alexander said straight up. "A college student. Just keep it low-key, no contact."
"Target?"
"I’ll send you the details. I need to know where she goes, who she talks to, and anyone she’s in touch with. And I want a full background check, where she’s from, who she knows, anything that doesn’t match the official story."
"When do you need it by?"
"Forty-eight hours for initial info. I’ll pay triple what you usually charge."
After a mont of silence, he said, "Alright. Just send what you have."
Alexander ended the call and started putting together the details: screenshots from the security footage, the na Ayla Monroe, her college enrollnt info, and the hospital records with their weird gaps.
If Ayla Monroe were just Ayla Monroe, the investigation would clear things up, and he could breathe easy.
But if she were actually Ayla Alston, he’d get the scoop before she had a chance to recognize him or link it back to Emma’s real story.
Either way, he’d be ready.
He sent off the info and then snapped his laptop shut. In two days, he’d have so answers.
For now, though, he needed to play the dad Emma expected. He had to keep the whole normal routine going that had turned into his best cover.
He stood up, rolled his shoulders to shake off the tension, and left the study.
Ti to whip up so dinner.
*****
The kitchen was slling like garlic and olive oil as Alexander cooked at the stove. He’d always been a decent cook, a skill picked up during his solo travels in places where takeout wasn’t an option. Tonight, he was making pasta carbonara, one of Emma’s favorites.
"Emma!" he called out in a friendly tone. "Dinner’s ready!"
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