Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
A beat passes.
Then my screen lights up.
MASK: I see it.
MASK: Leave the building. Now.
MASK: Do not take the front exit.
I swallow hard. ME: How do you always know?
MASK: Because I’m watching. Go to the east stairwell. Move quickly.
Part of me wants to throw my phone. To scream that I can’t keep doing this—living half-scared, half-protected by a ghost. But the rest of me—the part that’s been surviving by listening—moves.
My sneakers slap against the tile as I cut through the side hallway, past the break room. The office fades behind me. The stairwell door slams shut, echoing in the empty concrete stairwell. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Level three.
By the time I reach the garage, I’m breathing hard. The air smells like exhaust and dust. It’s dim—half the overhead lights flicker uselessly.
I check my phone.
No new messages.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself.
Then, from the corner of my eye—movement.
A shadow.
Long. Human.
I freeze.
Someone’s standing behind one of the support pillars near the back row of cars. I can’t see details, just the vague shape of a shoulder, the hint of dark clothing. My breath catches. The shadow shifts—like whoever it is just leaned forward.
My phone buzzes again. I flinch, nearly dropping it.
MASK: Do not panic. Get in your car and drive to the main exit. Keep your head down. Don’t run.
I glance toward my car. It’s only twenty feet away. But those twenty feet feel like a minefield.
I take a breath, force myself to walk—slow, steady, pretending I don’t see anything. My keys shake in my hand.
Ten feet.
Five.
Behind me, something scrapes.
A shoe? A hand? My brain can’t decide.
I unlock the car, slide in, slam the door, and lock it in one motion. My hands are shaking so badly I almost miss the start button. The engine roars to life.
Headlights flood the garage—and for a split second, I see him.
A man in dark clothes, hoodie up, back turned to me. He’s not moving toward me. Not yet. But he’s waiting.
I can’t see his face.
My phone buzzes again.
MASK: Drive. Now.
I peel out of the spot, tires squealing, adrenaline screaming through my veins. I don’t look back until I hit the ramp. When I do, the shadow’s gone.
By the time I make it two blocks away, my hands have stopped working. I pull over, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache.
Another message lights up my screen.
MASK: You did good. Go somewhere public for now. You’re safe.
MASK: Rule #1. Always trust me.
I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Safe.
The word feels like a lie and a promise all at once.
I glance in the rearview mirror. My reflection looks pale, shaken, but alive.
Then I think of Gage, handing me coffee this morning, that soft half-smile, like maybe he knew today was going to fall apart again.
And I don’t know why, but the thought of him—his steadiness, his infuriating calm—grounds me.
I pop a stick of Misfit chewing gum into my mouth and type back.
ME: Okay. I trust you.
Then I start the car again, merging into the traffic and noise, pretending that means something close to normal.
But somewhere, deep down, I know the truth.
This isn’t over.
Not even close.
EIGHT
GAGE
By the time I get the alert from Arrow, River’s already running.
Her phone GPS lights up my secondary monitor—pulsing red dot moving fast through the lower east side, heading for the parking garage exit. The live feed shows a hooded figure in the shadows by the concrete pillar. Wrong stance. Wrong timing. The posture of someone waiting, not passing through.
I’m already out of my chair before I realize it. The adrenaline kicks in, sharp and hot, a jolt that feels like muscle memory.
ARROW: “I’ve got eyes on her. You’re closer, Gage. Two blocks out.”
ME: “I’m on it.”
ARROW: “You see the hoodie?”
ME: “Yeah.”
I run through the hallways at work like a man on a mission. Well, I am a man on a very important mission. Find this asshole before he can hurt River. I get to the parking garage and glance around.
The air smells like cold concrete and burned rubber. The echo of footsteps bounces off every surface. Hers? Theirs? I can’t tell. I take the corner too fast and nearly wipe out on a slick oil patch.
I told her to drive. To keep going.
Now I’m here to make sure that wasn’t a mistake.
I follow the sound. Quick, deliberate, just enough weight to belong to someone who thinks they’re invisible. I spot movement near the maintenance stairs—hoodie, dark jeans, gloved hands.
“Hey!” My voice cracks through the air.
The shadow freezes. For half a second, I swear they’re about to turn around. But then they bolt. Up the stairwell. I chase.
The stairwell reeks of metal and mildew, footsteps slapping out a rhythm like a countdown clock. The hooded figure bursts out onto the top floor, vaults a row of tires, then cuts left toward the pedestrian ramp.