The kind that says something has already happened.
I cut the engine before I even reach the curb and step out slow, fingers wrapped around the knife strapped to my arm. My body is buzzing from the last three hours—tracking, threatening, searching for a ghost that keeps slipping out of reach.
None of that matters now.
The second I reach the apartment door?—
It’s open.
Not broken. Not kicked in.
Unlocked.
That’s worse.
Raven knows better.
She never leaves it open.
“Raven?”
My voice barely echoes.
I step inside, and the air hits me like a fist.
Cold. Still. Wrong.
She’s not here.
The room is intact. The table still smeared with memories of the last time I touched her. The bedroom door half open. Her sweatshirt on the floor.
But she’s not in it.
I move fast now. Knife out.
Windows. Fire escape.
Hallway.
Nothing.
Then I notice it.
The wall.
Left of the dresser.
The vent.
Ripped open.
Screws stripped, metal bent back. Inside—a dark cavity.
I drop to my knees and throw my phone light into the crawlspace.
Her footprints.
Fresh.
