It crawls under my skin and lights a fire I’ve never learned how to put out.Because this phone… It’s a collar.And I’ve been wearing it since the day I was born.
“I found her,” he says.
And everything inside me goes still.
Those three words tear through me like shrapnel, tearing open shit I’ve spent years trying to bury.I never wanted to hear those words.
Not from him.Not from anyone.I’ve prayed.I’ve actually fucking prayed that she’d stay hidden.Stay gone.Stay safe.
Because if he ever found her… It’s over.
The silence stretches, thick and strangling.My grip on the phone turns to stone, knuckles white as my throat locks.
“Get here, now,” he says, voice steel, emotionless.
Chapter Two
Emery
Thelowhumofthe fluorescent lights buzzes like it’s trying to crawl inside my skull.The hiss of the griddle and the clatter of plates echo through the diner, filling the space as always.
Dinner rush.
If you can even call it that.More like a trickle of tired souls looking for something hot and salty to remind them they’re still breathing.It’s mostly truckers, lonely old men, and couples too tired to pretend they’re still in love.Same faces.Same orders.Same shitty jokes.
But safe.The kind of safe that numbs your edges.The kind I’ve begged for.
Because boredom means no blood.No guns.No ghosts.
I scribble down a two-patty melt, extra onions, a side of fries, and a slice of that fake-ass cherry pie sitting in the front case like it hasn’t been there for three days straight.
The order pad crinkles in my hand as I tear the slip free, passing it to Pete behind the counter without looking up.
My smile is automatic, tight, practiced, nothing more than muscle memory.
Then the bell above the door rings.Every part of me goes still.The kind that wraps around your spine akin to a noose.The kind that knows before your brain catches up that something’s off.
My fingers curl against the counter.My breath stalls in my throat.I don’t turn.
Not yet.
Because I already feel it.
That shift in the air.Because I know the past doesn’t knock.It doesn’t creep or whisper or ask permission.It kicks the door down and walks in as if it never left.
When I finally glance over, I don’t look directly at him.Just a flick of my eyes.A quick sweep.Casual.Cautious.
But it’s enough.
He stands near the door as if he owns the room, or like he’s deciding whether to burn it down.Posture relaxed but not slouched.Controlled.Calculated.
Mid-forties, maybe fifty.Salt cutting through his dark hair at the temples.Not soft, not tired… seasoned, as if life has tried to wear him down, but he hasn’t let it win.His suit is dark and impeccable, not flashy but expensive, giving off the impression that he doesn’t quite belong in this rundown diner, with its cracked vinyl booths and flickering lights.
He appears to be someone who doesn’t have to ask for things twice.And that alone sets every nerve in my body on edge.
But it’s not the suit.
Not the scar.
