The drizzle comes down harder.
Footsteps pound the pavement as New Yorkers escape the sky’s wrath, the rain quickly becoming a deluge.
“Here you go, sir.” Someone hands me an umbrella, and I look up.
It’s red.
A singular spot of color in the world of gray, just like another day long ago.
Rocks bite into my knees. Rain cuts into my eyes. My short, sixteen-year-old frame shivers from the cold.
Hunger carves a relentless hole in my stomach.
Then a red umbrella—vibrant and unforgettable—just like the girl holding it.
The beautiful girl from worlds away who smells of roses.
The only person to stand between me and the storm.
The sudden crack of thunder jolts me back to the present. I straighten to my full six-foot-three height and thank the footman. Puberty caught up, along with scars, blood, and everything else.
These memories? They escaped their damn box again.
Useless scraps of my past. I need to work on reining them in.
Twenty-eight minutes.They’re only allowed to roam free for twenty-fucking-eight minutes a day.
No more, no less.
Chapter 5: WHISPERS OF FEAR
My fingers shake asI reread the email. I fiddle with the emerald pendant nestled on my chest, grazing the tiny notches again.
Ms. Anderson,
Apologies for the delayed response. Per your request, I shadowed you for two weeks. No unusual persons noted, but this SUV with Illinois plates appeared within a hundred feet of you on three separate occasions, which could be coincidental.
Regardless, I’d advise caution.
Emerson Clarke
I flip through the photos of a black SUV with tinted windows. Lingering outside Fleur. Near the Italian deli I frequent. A block from my Upper West Side apartment. It looks similar to the one outside the office this morning, butI can’t be sure.
Chill curdles inside my gut as I cross my office on the forty-ninth floor to the large window overlooking Fifth Avenue.
Rain hammers the glass panes, the wind howling a mournful wail. Fog mists over the city, an endless swath of murkiness. How I wish it were spring—sunshine, flowers in bloom.
Normally, I’d curl up on my oversized lavender armchair at home and read. But worries swarm my mind instead. Why would anyone follow me? For money? For photos? Something worse?
My chest tightens.
I stare at the black puzzle box on top of my desk.
Could it be my mysterious admirer?
No, it can’t be.
These puzzle boxes started showing up randomly years ago. When they first appeared, our family was on high alert. I had a bodyguard tailing my every move, expecting a stalker to escalate. But the gifter covered up his or her tracks well.
