I sit on the floor in the dream, shaking, watching the doorway. I wait. I keep waiting. Every sound makes my heart leap.
But she never comes. She doesn’t burst through the door. She doesn’t call my name, or grab my hand and tell me it’s over.
She doesn’t come.
That’s when I wake up.
Every single time.
With my heart hammering, my throat tight, my body soaked in sweat like it’s trying to remember the run. The room is dark. Quiet. Safe. And still, the echo of her voice hangs in the air.
Run.
She saved me.
And the dream never lets me forget the price I’ve had to pay for being alive.
24
ROWAN
The law library is nearly empty—exactly the way I like it.
Late enough that no one’s hovering. Early enough that security hasn’t started their rounds yet. The overhead lights hum softly, tired and indifferent, casting long shadows between the stacks.
It feels abandoned. Perfect.
I’m on the floor between two shelving units, back against the stacks, legs crossed, papers spread across my lap in an order that makes sense only to me.
My eyes burn. My neck aches.
I keep going anyway.
There has to be more. There has to be something I’ve missed, some thread that hasn’t been pulled hard enough yet. Because I can’t afford to end up in prison. Not for this. Not when I’m so close.
And if I can’t get close enough to the two monsters I’m hunting, then I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll dig into their pasts. I’ll tear through old records, forgotten articles, half-buriedmentions—anything that might tell me who the third man in that car was that day.
I’m scrolling through an article from eight years ago—a car show write-up where Marcus Delaney’s name makes a brief appearance—when the light shifts.
Not movement.
Stillness.
Something blocks the aisle. The space feels suddenly occupied, like the room has decided to squeeze me in.
I look up.
Justin is standing there.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His hands are loose at his sides like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks unhurried, unbothered, entirely too comfortable in my space. Like he didn’t stumble into this moment but chose it, and he’s not afraid to let me know that.
He smiles. Slow. Knowing. Like he understands the effect he has on me and enjoys seeing my discomfort.
“Hey,” he greets me casually.
My heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.
I hate that it does.
