Warmth. Light. A hand, solid and steady, grasped hers. Not Chester’s hand. Different. Warm skin, callused fingertips, strong grip. Anchoring her. Pulling her back.
David’s hand.
She bolted upright in bed, chest heaving like she’d surfaced from drowning. Her lungs dragged in oxygen with desperate, ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through her tank top and plastered her hair to her neck. Her heart hammered so violently she thought it might crack her ribs.
Minx stirred beside her, letting out an annoyed meow at having her sleep disturbed. She stretched, digging her claws into Lena’s thigh—a quick sharp pain that helped orient her to reality—and then resettled with a huff.
But it wasn’t the cat Lena clung to.
It was the memory of a hand. David’s hand, from the elevator. The way his fingers wrapped around hers, warm and solid and utterly certain. The way his presence filled the small space, crowding out the panic. The way his voice had soothed as he talked her through her fear.
Real. He had been real.
Her fingers twitched against the sheets now, remembering the feel of him—the texture of his skin, the slight roughness of his palm, the way his thumb rubbed her knuckles like a promise he wouldn’t let go.
Lena sat there for a long time in the dark, her slowing breath and Minx’s purr the only sounds. The clock on the nightstand displayed 3:47 am in harsh red digits. The storm had since passed, leaving in its wake a silence too dense, too expectant.
Her pulse hammered in her ears—not panic anymore, but something else. Something like dread. Foreboding.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the trembling that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Tried to convince herself it was only a dream. Stress from the day catching up with her. Her mind processing the trauma of the last few days: the stalker, the sabotage. That was all.
Just a dream.
But in her gut, deep in the place where instinct lived beneath logic, she knew better.
Something was coming. Something worse than the sabotage, worse than the generator failure, worse than her stalker.
And this time, she wasn’t sure if she’d survive it.
She wasn’t sure if David’s hand would be enough to pull her back when the darkness came for real.
Lena pulled her knees to her chest, rested her forehead against them, and waited for dawn with the terrible certainty that the morning sun wouldn’t make any of this better.
Chapter 24
Turning Tide
Lena tossedand turned after the nightmare. She dozed fitfully, light and restless, leaving her body aching and her mind tortured. Every time she closed her eyes, fragments returned—Chester’s voice, the sting of handcuffs, the cold metal of the police cruiser door against her temple. Beneath it all, deeper and older: the hollow echo of her father’s hospital room, the antiseptic smell that had clung to her skin for weeks after.
At dawn, she gave up.
The first light seeped through the gauzy curtains like watercolor, soft and apologetic. She sat up, rubbing at the tension knotted between her shoulder blades. Her reflection in the dresser mirror looked like a stranger—pale skin, shadows under her eyes deep enough to bruise, platinum hair tangled and dull.
She pulled on a hoodie, oversized and worn thin from too many washes, and a pair of linen joggers that hung loose on her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs as she padded barefoot into the kitchen, the tile cool under her bare feet.
Minx trotted at her heels, her little body weaving through Lena’s legs like she sensed her unease. Normally, she wouldchatter away, demanding breakfast with all the subtlety of a fire alarm. This morning, she was mum.
Lena flicked on the electric kettle. The gurgle and hiss of heating water filled the quiet. She pulled a mug from the cabinet—classic white ceramic with a fancy silver band—and reached for the chamomile tea. The scent of dried flowers rose as she tore open the packet. It reminded her of her father’s garden, the herb garden he’d kept before he got sick. Before everything fell apart.
When the knock came at the door, she startled hard enough to slosh water onto her wrist. The hot liquid stung, and she hissed, yanking her hand back.
“Lena,” a low voice said from the other side of the door. Familiar. Solid. “Just me.”
Her heart still hammered as she crossed to the interior door and opened it to see David holding two lidded mugs and wearing a threadbare MIT hoodie that looked like it had endured a decade of caffeine-fueled all-nighters. The gray fabric was faded in patches, the cuffs frayed. His hair was damp, dark strands curling at the ends, like he’d showered but hadn’t bothered to dry it. No shoes either—his bare feet were planted on the hall tile.
Minx darted past his ankles and into the room beyond, a flash of gray disappearing into unexplored territory.
“She slipped out earlier.” David’s voice carried a careful quality he sometimes used around her, as if she were something fragile. “Came to my home office and wouldn’t leave. Kept yelling at me. I figured she was trying to tell me something.”
