I step out of the confessional, adjusting my cufflinks. The cathedral is silent again. Peaceful.
I walk toward the exit, my blood humming with a dark, electric satisfaction. Ivy is safe. I protected her. I removed the threat.
I push open the doors and step out into the gray New York afternoon. The city is loud, chaotic, dirty. Somewhere out there, Ivy is walking home, thinking about her mysterious watcher.
Let her think it’s a fantasy. Let her think it’s a dream.
She’ll find out soon enough that I’m the only reality that matters.
CHAPTER 1
THE GHOST
POV: IVY
The walk home from St. Patrick’s feels longer than usual today.
New York in January is a cruel, biting beast. The wind whips off the Hudson, cutting through the threadbare wool of my coat like it’s made of lace. I pull the collar up higher, burying my chin in the scratchy fabric, but the cold still finds a way in. It settles in the hollow of my throat, a phantom hand squeezing just tight enough to make breathing a conscious effort.
My knuckles are white where I grip the strap of my tote bag. Inside, my sketchbook and art history textbook jostle against each other, a heavy, familiar weight.
I keep my head down, watching my boots crush the slushy gray snow on the sidewalk, but my senses are dialed up to a painful frequency. Every car horn makes me flinch. Every shadow stretching from the alleyways seems to reach for me.
He’s here.
I don’t see him. I never see him. But the sensation is so visceral, so undeniable, it’s like a second heartbeat thumping in my chest. A prickle at the nape of my neck. A sudden drop in air pressure. It’s the feeling of gravity shifting, centering not on the earth, but on a point somewhere behind me.
I stop at the crosswalk on 5th Avenue, waiting for the light to change. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Nothing but a sea of strangers. Tourists in bright puffer jackets, businessmen shouting into phones, a homeless man rattling a cup of coins. No one is looking at me. No one cares about Ivy Ross, the twenty-year-old art student struggling to make rent on a shoebox apartment in the Lower East Side.
And yet, my skin burns.
The memory of the confession booth floods back to me, making my cheeks flush hot despite the freezing wind. I can still hear the tremble in my own voice, confessing my sickness to Father Michael.
I feel safe. I feel... wanted.
God, I’m pathetic. I told a priest—a man of God—that I fantasize about a stalker. That instead of calling the police, I lay awake at night touching myself to the idea of a faceless man watching me from the dark.
Father Michael’s reaction had been... wrong. I shudder, recalling the slick, hungry tone in his voice when he invited me to the rectory.To ensure you are truly repentant.
I feel a sudden wave of nausea. The church was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place to scrub the grime of the city off my soul. Instead, it just felt like another trap. Another place where men look at me like I’m something to be consumed.
The light changes. I hurry across the street, my pace quickening. I need to get home. I need to lock the door, crawl under my weighted blanket, and pretend the world doesn’t exist until my morning lecture.
My apartment building is a crumbling pre-war walk-up that smells perpetually of boiled cabbage and damp plaster. The front door’s lock is temperamental, requiring a specific jiggle to open, but today, it unlatches smoothly. Too smoothly.
I frown, pushing it open. Maybe the super finally fixed it.
I climb the four flights of stairs, my thighs burning. The hallway is dim, half the bulbs burned out, casting long, flickering shadows against the peeling wallpaper. I reach my door—Apartment 4B—and fumble for my keys.
My hand freezes mid-air.
The door is unlocked.
Not just unlocked. It’s slightly ajar. Just a crack, barely an inch, but it’s enough to send a bolt of ice straight down my spine.
I didn't leave it like that. I am obsessive about locks. I check them three times before I leave. IknowI locked it.
