MaybeI’m being paranoid.
Still, I hesitate.
I should stay. That’s what he asked. Lock the door. Wait.
But the community center is three blocks away. Broad daylight. Full of people. And nobody’s made a move in threemonths. Not one. Maybe Havoc is seeing shadows where there aren’t any. Or maybe he’s so used to danger that he forgets the world outside his circle isn’t always trying to kill you.
I’ll be quick. In and out. Help with lunch, show my face, come straight back.
I hate the idea of letting the ladies down. They have already started teasing me about my biker.
I can’t bail on them just because I’m scared.
I fold the blanket neatly over the couch and head to the small bathroom to freshen up. My reflection looks paler than usual. My eyes are too wide. But I lift my chin anyway.
“I’m not hiding anymore,” I whisper to myself. “I can do this.”
I pull my hair back and grab one of Havoc’s hoodies since I didn’t bring clothes to change into. It smells like him. Clean and worn and grounding all at once. When I open the door, I glance down the hallway, half hoping he’ll be there.
He isn’t.
The clubhouse is quiet, wrapped in a morning hush. No one in the common area yet. I let myself out the side entrance and start the walk to the community center, my heart thudding hard and steady.
You’re fine, I tell myself.You’re not being followed.
But the air feels too still. Like the world is holding its breath.
I keep going anyway.
At the community center, I settle into my routine, setting up tables and waiting for the seniors to arrive.
Then the front door opens.
Three men in suits step inside.
They don’t belong here. Their shoes are too polished. Their smiles too smooth. My blood turns to ice.
“Miss Bartlett?” the tallest one asks, his tone easy. Practiced. “We’ve been looking for you.”
My heart lurches. I wipe my hands on my apron and reach for my phone, fingers shaking as I hit the speed dial Havoc programmed for Ghost. I slide the phone into the flour bin before they can see it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You have the wrong person.”
“We have a photo,” another man says. He pulls out a folded sheet of paper and opens it.
My face stares back at me. Grainy, but unmistakable.
“Naomi Sage Bartlett,” he says. “We just want to talk.”
Panic claws up my throat. I take a step back, my hands trembling. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Don’t make this difficult,” the tall one warns, his smile fading. “Judge Flores is very eager to see you again.”
The name slams me back into that hotel suite. My pulse spikes so hard I feel dizzy.
“Please leave,” I say, my voice shaking despite my effort to steady it.
“We will,” the third man says, smiling like a snake. “With you.”
