I unscrewed it slowly.
There.
Wrapped in black cloth. Tucked into the space behind the grate. I pulled it free. A flash drive. A book. And beneath it, a folded photo.
I didn't open it. Not yet. I already knew what it was. Her smile. My shadow. The last proof that Camille never forgot me—even when I stopped remembering myself.
I tucked both into my coat pocket. Turned. And froze. The door behind me hadn’t moved. But the air had. My breath stalled. Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Deliberate.Wolfe.
My fingers moved for my phone. But it was too late.
The floor groaned outside the apartment. And someone knocked. Once. Then silence. The kind of silence that tells you it’s already too late to run.
31
CLOE
The knock didn’t comelike a threat.
It came like breath. Like punctuation.
Soft.
Measured.
Wrong.
I was still crouched in front of the vent, knees aching from the cold floor, breath caught behind my ribs like it was trying to hide. My fingers were tight around the flash drive and the journal. The photo folded and crumpled in my coat pocket. I hadn’t looked at it yet. I didn’t want to. The weight of the drive was enough.
I slid the journal back into the vent, the metal covering left askew.
The knock came again.
Not louder.
Not urgent.
Just there.
Three taps.
Then silence.
Wolfe doesn’t knock.
That was the first thought.
The first fracture.
I turned toward the door slowly, every part of me screaming to move faster. But I didn’t. Something about the stillness on the other side told me everything I needed to know.
He wasn’t there.
And whatever was?—
It didn’t want me to run. It wanted me to hesitate. My heartbeat thundered. My throat locked. I reached for something—anything.
My fingers found the rusted pipe from the radiator near the wall. I gripped it tight. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. Filthy. Another knock.
