The concrete floor still bore the stains. Deep, rust-colored marks soaked into the surface, untouched and permanent. Time hadn’t softened them. The blood had settled too far into the pores. The smell of it came back to her with a force so real she nearly gagged. Copper and sweat. Smoke and death.
She blinked, but the image didn’t go away. Neither did the memories.
Her hands were shaking now.
A quiet “Shit,” came from Harlan. He held up his phone, confirming what they all already knew. Colt was still staring at his screen, lips pressed tight. Even Noah had gone rigid, his thumb frozen above the phone like he didn’t want to scroll in.
But all Brenna could see wasthatroom.
The dim lighting. The cracked tile near the drain in the corner. The blood trail that had led to the body of a young man barely out of high school. Her knees had hit that floor. Her palms had pressed down on his chest. She’d begged him to stay with her while the chaos raged outside, but his eyes had already gone glassy.
She couldn’t breathe.
The room around her receded. The hum of the screens, the faint whir of the air conditioning, the subtle shuffling of the others—it all fell away. In its place came screams she hadn’t heard in two years, the sound of gunfire, the slick warmth of blood on her hands.
A hand touched her arm.
Colt.
She hadn’t realized he’d moved closer. His voice was low, steady. “Brenna. Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Not yet.
This wasn’t just a message. It was a threat written in ghosts. The killer wasn’t playing games anymore. He was digging up her worst nightmare and throwing it in her face.
Not just to scare her.
To remind her of everyone she couldn’t save. And maybe to promise there would be more.
Noah didn’t speak as he added the second photo to the wall screen. The next image was of Timberline’s sealed-off interior joined the one of Wallace—still bound, still bruised, still silent. Together, the photos filled the screen like a punch to the chest.
Brenna stood frozen, her phone still clenched in her hand, her gaze locked on the image of that room. The one where she had lost control. Lost people. Lost something in herself that she hadn’t figured out how to get back.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Then another vibration buzzed against her palm.
She flinched.
All around her, the others checked their phones too. The tension in the room shifted instantly, sharp and coiled tight. A third photo, sent from the same unknown number. No words. Just more violence. More control.
Brenna opened it.
Her stomach turned.
Six people. Blindfolded. On their knees. Their hands were bound behind their backs, their heads bowed. The background was dark and nondescript, like the photo had been taken in a basement or storage room. No identifying details. No clues. Just human lives turned into a warning.
The blood drained from her face.
Memories slammed into her again, cruel and vivid.
A line of hostages. Screams. The metallic click of a gun being chambered. A hand yanking her backward while gunfire lit the air. She had fought to get to them. Crawled through smoke and chaos and blood. But she had been too late.
Too damn late.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard.
Harlan swore low beside her. “I’d bet money that’s the family members of the original Timberline hostages.”
