“Hazel?” she whispers, like she’s afraid saying my name too loudly will make me disappear. I drop to my knees before I realize I’m moving, the flashlight clattering uselessly to the floor as emotion crashes through me so fast it steals my breath.
“Oh my God,” I choke out. “You’re alive.”
Leyla breaks. She scrambles forward on shaking legs and collapses into me, arms wrapping tight around my neck as she sobs; the sound raw, and unfiltered, and devastating. I hold her without thinking, rocking us both, my own eyes burning as relief, and horror, and joy tangle together into something I can’t separate.
“I thought—” she gasps. “I thought we were never getting out of here…”
“You are,” I say fiercely, pressing my forehead to hers. “We’ve got you. We’re here.”
Behind us, Zack is already at work, snapping restraints and checking Cameron’s wrists with quick, efficient movements that somehow still manage to be gentle. Cameron lets out a shaky breath he’s probably been holding for months.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters hoarsely.
Zack huffs a humorless laugh. “You always were impatient.”
The sound does something to me—grounds me, reminds me this is real. That this isn’t another cruel trick of hope.
Leyla pulls back just enough to look at me, hands still gripping my arms like she needs proof I’m solid. Her eyes search my face desperately. “She said—” Her voice trembles. “She said you were supposed to die.”
The words land like a blade.
“She?” My stomach twists, but I keep my voice steady. “Shefailed.”
Leyla nods sharply, something fierce flashing through her fear. Cameron squeezes her shoulder, leaning his forehead against hers for a brief moment, silent reassurance passing between them. We still don’t know who’s all behind this, but now truly isn’t the time for any of this.
“We need to move,” Zack says quietly. “Now.”
I nod, helping Leyla to her feet, keeping an arm wrapped around her when her knees wobble. She leans into me like she’s memorizing the feeling of support, like she’s afraid the ground will disappear again if she lets go.
As we turn toward the stairs, something prickles at the back of my neck.
The room feels…watched.
I shake it off, telling myself it’s just adrenaline, just the echo of everything that’s happened. We found them. That’s what matters. We’re getting out. That’s all that matters.
None of us see the camera tucked high in the corner, its lens blinking softly as it adjusts to the movement below.
None of us hear the distant door above slide open.
And none of us realize that while we’re holding onto relief with both hands, The Whispering Killer is already on their way; silent, patient, and very close.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BLOODONMYHANDS
HAZEL
Upstairs, the warehouse almost feels normal, not like moments ago when there were two people trapped in the bowels of it.
Not safe, never that, but open, breathing, touched by daylight that spills in through the high windows and softens the hard edges just enough to make the place feel less like a grave. Dust floats lazily in the air, catching the light, and for a fragile moment, it feels like the worst part is behind us. Like all that’s left is the logistics of leaving and the long, messy work of healing afterward.
Zack and Cameron don’t linger around, mumbling something along the lines of they have to finish this. They don’t stop moving, they never do when adrenaline is still driving them forward. They exchange a look—half memory, half instinct—and then they’re moving, already talking over each other about bags, phones, drives, anything that can’t be left behind.
“Office mezzanine,” Cameron says.
“Back storage,” Zack answers.
And just like that, they split off in opposite directions, footsteps echoing as they disappear deeper into the warehouse, already hunting for the pieces they’ll need to make sense of what comes next.
