ONE
“The Ghost Writer”
CASSIE
Metal scrapes against metal.
The sound drags me out of a dream and into the dark.
I freeze. The air conditioning hums. The street outside is quiet. But the sound comes again—the distinct, wet click of a tumbler sliding into place. My pulse slams against my ribs. A frantic, rabbit-kick rhythm.
Someone is picking my lock.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
The tumblers click. Once. Twice.
My apartment is on the fourth floor. Fire escape access only. Which means whoever is at that door didn’t get here by accident.
The lock gives with a final snick.
Adrenaline floods my system. My fingers find the pepper spray on my nightstand—the one my father gave me when I moved to DC.Just in case, sweetheart.I wrap my hand around the canister. Cold metal grounds me.
The door opens. Slow. Controlled. No creak. No hesitation. Just a shift in air pressure as the hallway draft bleeds into my living room.
A shadow detaches itself from the darkness of the hall.
He’s huge. Broad shoulders blocking out the ambient streetlamp glow. He moves with a terrifying silence, stepping over the squeaky floorboard near the entrance like he memorized the blueprints.
Professional.
Fear claws at my throat. I shove it down. Think, Cassie. Think.
He’s moving toward the bedroom. Toward me.
I slide out of bed. My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood. The pepper spray feels too light in my hand. Useless. A toy against a predator.
But it’s the only weapon I have.
The bedroom door is open a crack. Through the gap, he fills the frame. Dark tactical gear. No face, just a silhouette of lethal intent. Moving with the kind of economy that says operator. Killer.
He reaches for the knob.
I don’t wait for him to breach.
I yank the door open.
He flinches, but I’m already pressing the trigger.
“Fuck—” The word is a rough, strangled growl. He jerks back, hand flying to his face.
“Back!” The hiss of the spray fills the narrow hallway.
He stumbles back, one hand flying to his eyes, but he doesn’t go down. He doesn’t scream. He just collides with the bookshelf, sending a stack of case files cascading to the floor.
I should run. The fire escape is through the living room.
But he’s blocking the path. A wall of black fabric and muscle.
