What if Timur knows something about the black SUV?
I turn into our neighborhood, automatically scanning for threats as I approach our building. My eyes sweep everyparked car, every shadowed doorway, searching for that familiar menacing silhouette.
For now, the coast appears clear.
But the pieces are starting to form a pattern I don’t like: first the untraceable SUV, now Timur receiving urgent calls that transform him back into the man he used to be.
What the hell is happening?
And how long before it reaches Hannah?
Lord, give me answers.
Chapter Four
Lauren
Hannah’s weight sags against my chest as I fumble with the apartment door, her breath warm and steady against my collarbone.
Out cold. The dolls and Sophia’s attention must have worn her out completely.
I lock the deadbolt behind us and check my phone. 11 PM. Christ.
When did it get so late?
My bag hits the kitchen table with a soft thud. I shift Hannah higher on my hip, ready to carry her to bed, when something stops me.
The silence.
Our apartment is always quiet—seventeen floors up means the street noise rarely reaches us. But this is different. Heavier. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
I freeze, listening.
Nothing.
Cold spreads through my chest, the kind that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with instinct. My skin prickles. The hairs on my arms stand up.
Something is wrong.
The apartment feels occupied in a way it shouldn't. Not by Nikolai's ghost—I've learned to live with that particular haunting, welcomed it even on the worst nights. This is different. This feels present. Alive.
I pull Hannah tighter against me, forcing my breathing to stay even for her sake. But inside, my thoughts fracture into a thousand directions at once. The SUV. Timur's abrupt exit. Thehooded figure. What if I’ve been right to be paranoid? What if four years of fragile peace is all we were ever going to get? What if Aslanov has finally come for us?
Stop it, Lauren.
Breathe.
I make myself move, scanning the room as I circle toward Hannah’s bedroom. That’s when I notice it.
The laundry room door stands ajar.
I always keep it closed. Always. Ever since Hannah was two and nearly poisoned herself trying to open a bottle of detergent, that door stays shut.
My pulse hammers against my throat. I take one step closer, then another, angling to see inside without getting too close.
Nothing visible. No broken windows. The front door was locked when we arrived. The security system isn’t shrieking its alarm.
Everything looks normal.
