1
Audreyyy.
Her stride faltered as she crossed the prison gates.
The intrusion wasn’t just a memory or an errant thought.
It washisvoice.
Audrey Sarafian hadn’t heard him in ten years—not since the night her family’s house went up in flames—and she was found covered in their blood. Her parents and twin sister died in the fire, and the police said it was arson. Audrey, stunned and half-burned, told them about the man in her backyard, but no trace of him was ever found. She was accused of murdering her own family—of setting the fire herself—and the evidence pointed to her, the frightened teenager with the bloodied hands and no alibi. Prosecutors and psychologists insisted the man she saw that night never existed, that her mind created him to survive incarceration. Some days, she believed them.
His melodic murmur sliced through the noise in her head. Maybe he’d always known where she was and had simply been waiting.
You have no idea how many doors I can open,he whispered.
She should have been more afraid to hear such a statement, but right now, as she moved through the gates without shackles, she had one goal: to get through the crowd without breaking.
Steel doors slammed behind her. The world hit her. It wasn’t mystical or hallucinatory—this was physical. Voices crashed in. Audrey bit her lip as waves of hate and curiosity washed over her. Surface thoughts from the crowd invaded her skull, fuzzing her vision.
Was she ready?
When the judge vacated her conviction, she would have said yes—hell yes. Now, with the murderer murmuring in her head, each step forward brought uncertainty. Beyond the gates, spectators roared with their phones high. Every mind touched hers, unfiltered, and impossible to shut out. Audrey pressed her thumb into her palm until pain flared white behind her eyes.
Alex—her lawyer and only ally—had insisted she leave in daylight.You deserve to walk out the right way. So, she’d chosen daylight over hiding.
Then, everyone else’s thoughts dulled. Her head tilted to the side at the sudden silence.
Audreyyyy.
Hearing his voice in her mind again made it hard to breathe. That accent was unmistakable. Unlike other voices, his was intentional, reaching straight to her core. By most accounts, telepaths were extraordinarily rare, so rare that many considered the stories fiction, myth, or the last echo of old superstitions. Most people doubted telepaths existed at all, dismissing them as urban legends, tabloid inventions, or fodder for conspiracy theorists. Even governments didn’t officially acknowledge them; when rumors cropped up, officials just pointed to faulty polygraphs or suggestibility. Being accused of telepathy in this day and age was almost as dangerous as beingone: ostracism, surveillance, and whispers followed anyone different.
If left untrained, telepathy was unreliable and inconsistent. Reaching for more could trigger a fierce headache, sometimes even a nosebleed or a blackout, if the telepath pushed for too long. The noise of too many minds at once quickly became overwhelming, distorting vision and pushing the telepath off balance. True telepathy—in the sense of holding a clear ongoing conversation at a distance—was supposed to be impossible, or so the stories went. The only telepaths Audrey had met were her mother and her twin—and their “gifts” had been unreliable at best. Her family’s minds had brushed each other, sometimes leaking feelings or stray words, but they had never plunged so deeply or precisely into another mind the way he did.
They didn’t choose where to touch. He did.
Audrey did, too, but she’d never admitted it to anyone, not even her twin.
Her foot caught on ice, and she stumbled, correcting before the guards could grab her.
Steady. Don’t react.
Good girl, the killer murmured.
She tried to ignore him. If she responded, the media, police, and everyone watching would call it proof and send her back—this time labeled as crazy.
Faces layered over faces, cameras flashed, but none matched the man from her house when it all went up in flames: dark features, tattooed arms. He’d stood in her backyard, clear as day. Or maybe her memory lied; memory rearranged itself when needed. Still, she knew deep in her gut he’d been real.
You won’t find me unless I want you to, love.
Audrey kept her face blank.
There she is.
Sick freak.
Monster.
Smile. Something vicious.
