PROLOGUE
ELLIOT
The bell above the door chimed just as I slid the receipt into the till. The poetry guy—a tall shadow of a man in a tan coat—nodded politely before disappearing into the gray murk of the afternoon, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. I watched the door swing shut behind him, the glass rattling faintly in its frame, and felt suddenly suffocated by the silence he left behind.
“That’s the last one for the morning,” I called, tugging down my sleeves, stuffing my shaking hands into the hoodie I wore like armor. “Just going to head off for lunch.”
From halfway up the stepladder in the mystery section, Madeline glanced over her glasses like a hawk in a cardigan. “Lunch time already? Time flies.”
“Yeah. Just… need to clear my head before it eats itself.” I tapped my temple and headed back toward the breakroom, trying not to let her see how badly I was shaking.
“Take your time,” she said. “It’s dead out here, anyway.”
The breakroom was a cluttered mess. A tight, airless space. It felt like the walls crept closer with every breath I took. Precariously stacked boxes of unpacked books lined the walls. Old invoices were piled across the small table in soft, collapsingstacks. Mugs with rings of dried tea scum crowded the sink. The fridge in the corner hummed too loud, a tired, mechanical wheeze that made my teeth itch.
I sank into the squeaky folding chair that occupied the only clear patch of floor and unwrapped my sandwich with fingers I pretended weren’t trembling. I chewed without tasting its cardboard texture and unfolded an old invoice. Absent-mindedly I started sketching in the margins. Wings. It was always wings.
Something that could leave. Something that didn’t have to stay trapped inside this small, breathing room full of quiet expectations and unfinished things. Something free of the chains my mind wrapped around me.
The TV above the microwave buzzed with static, tuned to some mindless midday show. It was just background noise…Until it wasn’t.
The screen flickered and the show cut out mid-sentence, replaced by a red banner and a voice too serious to belong in the middle of the day.
“…live coverage from Whispering Cove, where police are currently responding to an armed robbery in progress…”
My pencil froze mid-feather. A single line that bled and fractured into the paper like a vein.Whispering Cove.A cold thread slid down my spine, and it had nothing to do with the rain tapping the window.
I lifted my eyes slowly, like I already knew I shouldn’t look but couldn’t stop myself. My stomach dropped before my heart caught up. Some part of me already understood this would be bad.
The camera shook. Tilted as the image flickered in and out until it focused in on a familiar building. Pale stone facade. Black-and-gold lettering. Every detail burned into me.
Community Trust Bank.
The bank Mom had worked at for over twenty years. Where she’d gone just before I left for work that morning.
“…multiple hostages still inside…”
“No.” The word hit me like a blow to the ribs.
I stood so fast the chair screamed across the floor. My sandwich slipped from my hand and landed somewhere near my feet, forgotten. I didn’t even notice. I was already moving closer to the screen, like proximity could undo what I was seeing.
“…the names of three known hostages?—”
The building blurred. Photos replaced it. The third image stole the air from my lungs.
Mom.
Her warm smile. Her calm, beautiful hazel eyes. That stupid bun she wore when she needed to be “taken seriously.” Her lanyard against her pale blue blouse, the top buttons undone, and the black jacket that made up her uniform framing her shoulders.
It could have been anyone. But it wasn’t. It was my mom. My throat locked. The room tilted, and the pencil I’d still clutched in my other hand snapped between my fingers before clattering to the floor, loud in the sudden quiet that crashed down on me like snow.
The sound of gunfire cracked. It punched through the feed and straight into my chest. I tasted bile as it seared a burning path up my throat. My stomach rolled violently, almost knocking me off my feet.
Screams followed—haunted and terrified—and the camera lurched like the person holding it was running. Smoke filled the frame. Someone shouted orders. The reporter’s breathing went ragged and too loud, scraping against my nerves.
People ducked and ran for cover as the camera panned down the street. Armed officers surged forward just as a deafeningboom drowned out everything. Even the erratic thumping of my heart.
Then static. White noise flooded the screen, a shrill electric hiss that made the hair on my arms stand up. And then my vision went black. It was like something fundamental had vanished. One moment there was a world. Then there wasn’t.
