“Good. Keep it that way.”
“And you?” he asks. “You done for the night?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m just getting started.”
When the call ends, I don’t sit back down. I cross to the window, palm resting against the cool glass. Below me, the city spreads out—neon veins pulsing, streets slick with motion. From this height it almost looks orderly.
That’s the lie cities sell.
Down there, secrets are wrapped in money and silence, guarded by people who believe time will blur them into nothing.That if they wait long enough, the truth will lose its shape and stop mattering.
They’re wrong.
Secrets don’t fade away.
They change. They grow.
Rowan Hale stepped into my world tonight without knowing where the lines were drawn—or how quickly they could cut. I let her walk away with that knowledge intact.
That should have been the end of it. A warning given. A smart retreat taken.
But this doesn’t feel like an ending.
It feels like pressure building. Like the walls are closing in, and something has started moving that won’t stop just because it should. Like once a wheel turns, it keeps turning.
She came to the Slay Pen for a reason.
She didn’t find what she was looking for.
Which means she’ll change her approach. Take a different path. Get closer another way.
She’s digging.
I recognize it the way I always recognize shifts in power—small changes people overlook because everything still looks stable on the surface. But stability is an illusion. It only holds until someone presses hard enough.
And somewhere out there, Rowan is already adjusting her plan. Deciding how much she’s willing to risk to get the truth she’s chasing.
That belief—that answers are worth the price—gets people killed.
If I don’t figure out what game she’s playing, someone else will decide the rules for her. Someone who won’t offer warnings. Someone who won’t care if she survives the lesson.
I stay at the window, watching the city glow and pulse below me.
Because if she keeps digging, someone is going to hit solid ground. And when they do, everything buried underneath will come roaring into the light.
18
JUSTIN
Silas doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t fill the space with noise the way he usually does when he’s about to deliver bad news. He closes the door behind him with deliberate care, like sound itself has suddenly become dangerous.
I’m already seated at my desk, hands folded together, posture still. Waiting. All I’ve been doing is waiting. He’s back from Maybrook two days after I sent him there, and nothing about the way he moves suggests this was a wasted trip.
He stops in front of me and pulls a thick manila envelope from under his arm. It lands on the edge of my desk with a dull, heavy thud. He looks at the envelope for a beat longer than necessary, then lifts his eyes to mine.
He doesn’t sit.
“Before we start,” he warns, voice low, “you need to understand something.”
