The screen stays empty. A beat later, my phone rings. The fake name is across the screen in letters that blur. I blink my vision clear and tuck the phone under my thigh until the buzzing stops.
The garage to my building yawns up from the street the way it always does—mouth open, fluorescent bulbs buzzing, concrete damp from some leak no one’s fixed. I pull in and take my spot on the second level by muscle memory. Brake, park, engine off. The sudden quiet isn’t any better than the noise.
I sit there too long, hands slack on my lap, the day replaying in mean little flashes. Hart’s even voice. The anonymous prints. The knowledge that the hallways behind me are already carrying my story forward in whispers.
It isn’t just the case. It’s the credibility that gets you a nod in chambers, the benefit of the doubt in a sidebar, the silent respect that greases everything. I’ve spent years building it brick by brick. One rumor and a transfer slip, and the mortar is suddenly wet again.
A true rumor, and I have no one to blame but myself.
The phone rings a second time. I don’t pick up. I text instead:I’m home. I’m okay. Please. Not tonight.
The dots dance, then stop. Nothing.
I pull my bag onto my shoulder, open the door, and step into the echoing garage. It smells like gasoline and mustiness. Somewhere, a fan rattles. My heels click against concrete and make me feel exposed.
I head toward the elevator bay, hugging the wall out of habit, keys threaded through my fingers even though I’m not surethat trick ever helped anyone. The fluorescent light nearest the elevator flickers like a strobe. On, off, on.
A car engine turns over behind me. Normal. People come home. People leave. I don’t look. I press the elevator button and watch the red circle light up. The car behind me revs. Louder. Closer. The hairs at the back of my neck lift.
Don’t be dramatic, I tell myself. The garage is a horror movie set because fluorescent lighting is a war crime. Not because you’re in danger.
The sound swells. Tires squeal on concrete. I turn.
Headlights swing like a lighthouse arc and then zero in. On me. A white glare blanks my vision. The engine roars. The car is coming too fast, hood dipping with the acceleration, pointed at me.
I will my body to move, but it’s too slow.
Somewhere far away, my brain starts cataloging details: a dark grille, a dent in the front right fender, a harsh, grinding sound. Here, my muscles lock, useless. The elevator dings behind me like a joke.
“Elena!” a voice snaps, close and urgent. A hand clamps around my upper arm, iron-strong, and yanks. My heels skid, catch, my shoulder screams, and then my body is slammed sideways into a pillar hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
The car slices through the space I occupied half a second ago, wind and heat pushing past. Brakes shriek too late as it fishtails, clips the metal guard at the ramp, and barrels down to the next level, tail lights red and disappearing.
For a second, there’s only the ringing in my ears and the smell of hot rubber. I taste metal. My shoulder throbs under a hand that is still on me, steadying, pinning me to safety.
“Elena,” the voice says again, lower now. “Hey. Breathe.”
I haul air in. It burns. My eyes focus. Nico stands in front of me, close enough that I can see the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, the set of his mouth, the burn in his eyes trained down the ramp where the car vanished. His palm is flat against the pillar by my head; his other hand is still wrapped around my arm.
“Nico,” I manage, and my voice comes out thin. “What—?”
“You okay?” He doesn’t look at me yet. He’s listening to the garage: the direction of the engine, the echo of tires, the ding of the elevator, anything that might signal another threat. Only when he decides we have a few seconds does he angle toward me. “Elena. Are you all right?”
“I—” My knees try to give; his hand tightens before they can. “Yes. I think so.” I swallow, force my lungs to behave. “What the hell was—”
“Not an accident,” he says, clipped. His gaze flicks over me, fast and thorough. Face, throat, shoulder, ribs, legs. As if cataloging everything. “We have to move. Now.”
He’s already hauling me toward the nearest row. His grip is iron around my arm, not painful, just uncompromising.
“My car—” I start, stupidly.
“Forget your car.” He cuts us between bumpers, head on a swivel, scanning shadows, ramps, mirrors. “Eyes up.”
We jog along the concrete wall, my shoulder throbbing where he yanked me, my other shoulder throbbing where I slammed into the pillar. Somewhere below, a horn blares and fades. He fishes a key fob from his pocket; a dark sedan two spaces ahead blinks alive.
“Get in,” he says.
He opens the passenger door, shoves my bag after me, and I fold into the seat before my brain can think of an argument. He’s around the hood in a blink. Driver’s door, engine, reverse, a smooth, fast arc that has us pointed toward the exit before I’ve found the seat belt. He reaches across, buckles me without looking, then guns it.
