The crumbling brick building sits ahead, windows blacked out, a hollow shell of whatever it used to be. Perfect place to die. And to kill. My boots make no sound on the gravel as I move, sticking to the darkest parts, letting adrenaline drown out whatever is left of my conscience. Nolan’s words loop in my head.
Back entrance. Midnight. In and out. No witnesses.
I slip the gun from my waistband as I approach the rear door, my grip on it disturbingly steady. I blend into the wall, then ease the door open just enough to slip through. I’m wearing a black balaclava, a black shirt, and jeans.
Inside the building, it smells like damp wood and oil. My eyes adjust quickly. A single bulb flickers overhead, some dying thing struggling for life. Then I hear a quiet male voice.Ralph Calderón.
My jaw tightens, and I press myself behind a towering rusted machine, peeking around its side. Ralph stands with his back to me, flipping through a stack of money. A knife tucked into his belt. Broad shoulders. Tattoos crawling up his neck like vines. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to tear me apart if he saw me first.
He’s on the phone, speaking Spanish, fast, irritated. I catch enough to know he’s cussing someone out. I steady my breath, and focus. Just a bullet. Quick, clean, enough time to disappear before the blood even cools. I raise the gun, finger tightening on the trigger—
Then a floorboard groans beneath my boot. Ralph freezes.
Fuck.
He spins, reaching for the knife, but I fire first. The crack deafens the room. The bullet punches into his shoulder,knocking him back. But he doesn’t fall. My vision narrows into a tunnel. Ralph roars, staggering behind a fallen beam. His knife clatters away, but he’s scrambling for another weapon, maybe a gun.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
He lunges out with a broken bottle, swinging wildly. I dodge, but glass scrapes across my arm, tearing skin open. I can barely feel the pain with the adrenaline pumping through my goddamn blood. I grab him, slam him into a support post hard enough to rattle the entire room. He elbows me in the ribs. I grunt. The gun slips from my hand, skittering across the floor.
Shit.
We grapple, his blood smearing over my clothes. He’s strong and desperate, which is the worst kind of fighter. He’s a little shorter and less muscular than I am, so I havesomeleverage. His fingers claw at my throat; stars explode behind my eyes. I drive my knee into his gut. He collapses forward, wheezing.
My hand finds a jagged piece of metal on the floor. I don’t think...I just swing. It cracks against his skull with a sickeningthud. He drops to his knees, then to his hands, blood streaming down his face. I grab the back of his head and smash it onto the concrete floor. And again. And again.
By the time he stops moving, my breath is shallow, and my ears areroaring. My hands shake from the coke and the kill. From the fucking spiral I can’t crawl out of. Every kill drives me deeper. I retrieve my gun, wipe it on my shirt, and look down at the mess I’ve made. This wasn’t clean. But at least Ralph Calderón is dead. So fuck it.
I slip into the alley behind the building, the black hoodie I stashed before I left resting along a back entrance railing. Thank hell I brought it. My clothes are soaked in Ralph Calderón’s blood. I pull the hoodie over my head, cinching it tight, and let the shadows swallow me as I move.
The walk back to the hotel is silent. My hands are shaking, but I don’t care. Numbness is preferable to thought right now. I don’t know how much worse this is going to get. Nolan just keeps wanting to push me further and further.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.
The elevator ride is achingly slow, and I stare at my reflection in its gold, mirrored wall.I’m a fucking demon.I take the stairs two at a time.
Micah is already there, sprawled across the couch in our suite, a half-empty bottle of water dangling from his fingers. He glances up when I enter, and says nothing. But I know he’s relieved that I survived. I nod. That’s enough.
The hoodie comes off, leaving my arms streaked in red. I don’t dare wear my boots inside the suite, so I remove them quickly at the door. My fingers dig into the grooves of dried blood on my jeans. I don’t look at Micah while I make my way toward the shower. I strip methodically, numb. Steam fogs the mirror. I stare at my blurring reflection anyway. Tousled hair, bruised knuckles, eyes glassy.
My gaze drifts down to my wallet. I pull it open with a stiff hand and slide my ex’s photo out. I look at this fucking thing almost daily. My throat tightens, and my stomach knots. This one photo has kept me alive more times than I’d like to admit. Once, I stared at her photo for two fucking hours while I contemplated shooting myself in the head. It’s not like she’s going to save me or ever be mine again, but I know it would destroy her if she knew I killed myself. It would destroy me if she did, even if I don’t really know her anymore.
I lean my forehead against the mirror, water running in the background, and just...stare. And when I finally do find myself beneath the showerhead, the water drags the stickiness down the drain. But it’s not enough. It never fucking is.
Chapter four
EMMA EASTON
The briny smell of salt and seaweed reaches my nose as I squat on the edge of the dock. The waves crash into it, bringing me more comfort than my anxiety meds ever could. That single sound has done that for me for as long as I can remember.
Behind me, Heather leans against the railing, blonde hair falling in loose waves, brown eyes bright as she rattles off some hospital drama. She laughs so loud it startles the gulls. Same height as me, same curves. My opposite in noise and energy. Where I’ve been described as “vanilla,” she’s more “mint chocolate chip.” Her sass is one of my favorite things about her, though.
I smile without turning around. Paint stains my fingers, the faint scent of acrylic still there from my workday. I flex my hand, remembering my last patient—a quiet kid who never spoke awordabout his past. Not to me. Not to his parents. But the second I handed him a brush,everythingpoured out in color. Rage, grief, confusion. All of it. Moments like that make me remember why I do what I do. I’ve had a relatively easy life, but I still know what pain feels like.
Heather nudges my shoulder. “You’re zoning again.”
I chuckle, brushing a strand of wavy brown hair from my face, my brown eyes squinting toward the sunlight. “Sorry. Thinking about work. I know youlovehearing that.”
