Smoke.
And where there’s smoke?—
I stopped moving.
Listened.
The house answered with a faint crackle. Then another. Soft. Patient. Like someone folding paper too close to a flame.
My stomach dropped.
When I turned back toward the stairs, I saw them—thin gray ribbons slipping upward along the edges of the steps. Not rushing. Not chaotic. Controlled. Intentional.
At the far wall, something glowed.
A low orange pulse showed through a seam so fine I might have missed it seconds earlier. It flickered once. Then again. Small. Hungry. Alive.
Heat brushed the soles of my shoes. This was real. This was happening.
My chest tightened, my breath shortening before panic could even form words. The quiet of the house collapsed into sound—the ticking expansion of materials, the faint rush of something feeding below me, the fragile architecture of safety coming apart piece by piece.
I was alone.
No—
My thumb found Tariq before my brain could argue. I dropped the pin and texted,HURRY.Then I hit 911. Theoperator answered calmly. Steady. A human voice in the middle of something that suddenly felt designed to erase me.
As I gave the address, a sharp pop cracked from below. Glass breaking. The sound of fire finding oxygen.
And as I spoke, as the first pop of breaking glass echoed from below, the realization settled in with chilling clarity. This wasn’t a bad appointment, and this wasn’t a strange client. I had been placed here. And they wanted me dead.
My God!
And I needed Tariq to find me before they succeeded.
19
My phone buzzed once while I was at my desk reviewing burn patterns from the fire beside the laundromat. I glanced down absently—expecting something light from my baby. Something like “dick for dinner?” Instead, I saw a dropped location.
The Slopes.
Under it:
HURRY.
My pulse kicked up, fast and sharp, the same way it did walking into a structure you already knew was wrong. I called again, already standing, already reaching for my jacket before my brain finished forming a thought.
Then the notification came through.
Voicemail.
I didn’t breathe as I pressed play.
“Tariq—”
Her voice was thin. Strained. Like she was forcing air past something that didn’t want to let it through.
“I’m at the address I sent. It’s not right. It’s?—”
