Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
On the night that my mother was shot, she and I had been walking back from the theatre after having just seen a fantastic show. I can still remember how excited I was talking about the performance while my mother was eagerly listening and smiling along. Then, without warning, a man appeared at the end of the dark alley before us.
In hindsight, we shouldn’t have been walking in that alley alone. We should have taken a cab or waited for my dad to get off shift at the police station to give us a ride home. But we were still high from the show, blind to how dark and foreboding the streets were. We were just looking forward to getting home, making popcorn, and maybe reenacting the best moments.
We never got to do that, because my mother never made it home alive.
Parts of that night are still a blur, likely because of the trauma I endured. The therapist I saw for a while said that it’s a common thing for your brain to remember only parts of a traumatic experience and to block out others. I stopped seeing that therapist after a few months because it wasn’t helping. I know what I needed, and still need, to move past my trauma and heal, and it isn’t therapy sessions billed at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. What I need is to find my mother’s killer.
The gunshot is burned into my memory. One second, my mom was smiling. Next, her shirt bloomed red, and she collapsed. The man who shot her turned the gun on me next. I remember the barrel, and the terror locking my body in place. And then—another gunshot.
I flinched, expecting to feel pain, to see blood. But I wasn't the one who was shot. The gunman dropped to the concrete, his weapon clattering beside him.
Behind him stood another figure. His gun lowered. His eyes—stone cold—locked on me for one second before he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Even though it was years ago, the memory is fresh like it happened yesterday. I remember chasing him, feet pounding, rage and shock propelling me forward. But when I reached the end of the alley, there was nothing. No exit. No man. Just emptiness. As if he’d evaporated into the air itself. Just like a Ghost.
My therapist said it was my imagination. That I created an “antihero” to cope. That I needed to believe someone saved me. But the memories are too vivid. Too sharp.
And now, years later, whispers swirl about an assassin the underworld calls the Ghost. A shadow who kills in silence. A name spoken in hushed voices.
I can’t ignore that.
And if I’m right… then finding him might be the only way I’ll ever uncover the truth about my mother’s death.
CHAPTER 2
ELLE
Ishake my head to clear the memory and take a sip of my black coffee. This morning, I’m getting ready to attend a wedding of all things.
Later today, my childhood friend Valentina is getting married. I use the term “friend” loosely since that’s a long and complicated story. It was a shock just to have her reach out, doubly so to me there as security. Regardless, I’m attending her wedding for more reasons than one. Actually, I’m attending under the pretense of being there for security purposes, but I have my own purpose for being there as well. I want to watch, observe the ceremony and, more importantly, the guests. I want to see what I can garner as far as surveillance intel in the midst of a high-profile wedding with mafia-aligned families. And since I get to attend under the guise of security oversight, that means I don’t even need to dress up.
Becoming a criminal profiler was destined for me. Not only have I made it my job to specialize in violent crime and organized crime syndicates, but I’ve also made it my life. For some, pursuing truth and justice might be a passion. But for me, it’s an obsession. And since I’m exceptionally skilled in profiling and psychological analysis, that means that I’m also damn good at my job.
I should probably thank my unresolved childhood trauma for pushing me toward dedicating my entire life and career to understanding killers and providing investigators with valuable insight into criminals’ minds in order to catch them. But my own scars embedded deep into my soul after witnessing my mother’s murder have kept me keenly focused on catching one killer in particular. One I’ve still yet to sniff out.
I tie my dark chestnut hair back into a loose ponytail, like I frequently do, and slide on my pants and a shapeless white button-down shirt that conceals my chest. Then, I slip my gun into its holster. I haven’t ever even fired it before, but I always wear it just in case the need arises. I intend to go to the wedding looking like a professional, favoring practicality over appearance as I always do. My job is to surveil, not to enjoy the ceremony as any other guest.