Eight Months Earlier.
LORETTA
My heels struck the pavement in uneven rhythm, sharp cracks ricocheting off the tight Barcelona streets like gunfire.
I tried to steady my steps, but fear had already taken control, turning my body into something frantic.
The tip of my cane swept ahead of me, tapping, sliding, mapping the ground in quick, practiced arcs.
My lungs burned.
Someone was behind me—running hard, fueled by rage, closing in.
I couldn’t see them, but the pounding, monstrous footsteps were unmistakable—louder now, closer with every step as I pushed myself faster.
I reached my apartment door.
I had to get inside before they caught me.
My grip tightened painfully around my cane as my other hand plunged into my bag, fingers fumbling past my wallet, my phone, a pack of tissues—
Keys.
Where are the keys?
“Come on... come on...” I muttered under my breath, my voice barely more than a breath itself.
My fingertips finally brushed the cold metal, and I yanked the keys free, nearly dropping them in my haste.
Focus, Loretta.
My fingers shook so badly the metal scraped uselessly against the keyhole.
“Damn it—”
I tried again.
Missed.
Behind me, the footsteps pressed closer.
A cold wave slid down my spine.
I yanked the key out, flipped it, and forced my shaking hand to steady. My thumb traced the grooves, grounding myself in something real.
This time, it slid in.
The click was soft—but to me, it sounded like survival.
I shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall inside. I stumbled over the threshold, catching myself on the frame before spinning back and slamming it shut, muscle memory taking over even as my breathing broke into ragged gasps.
Only when everything was secured did I press my back against the door, every inch of my body braced like I could physically hold the world out.
My heart pounded so violently it blurred everything else.
I forced myself to go still and listen.
Nothing.
