The smell of smoke and blood vanished instantly. The ringing in my ears faded to nothing. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, slow and heavy, like a fist knocking on a door I'd locked years ago.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
It was impossible.
She was dead.
I had seen her body. I had touched her cold skin. I had kissed her forehead in the morgue and whispered promises I couldn't keep.
I buried her myself.
But it wasdefinitelyher.
The shape of her jaw.
Those exact eyes.
The same cheekbones I'd traced with my thumb a thousand mornings.
"Vicente!"
Rage's voice snapped me back.
She was on her feet now, gun still smoking, eyes darting between me and the exit.
"Who the hell is that?"
I didn't answer.
I was already running before my mind fully processed me doing it.
My legs pumped. My lungs burned. My dress shoes slipped on the blood-slick concrete, but I didn't slow down.
I burst into the night, cold air hitting me like a slap.
The street was empty.
The shadows had swallowed her whole.
"Damn it!"
My fist cracked against the warehouse wall, pain vibrating up my arm. The brick scraped my knuckles. I didn't feel it.
My head spun.
I couldn't fucking breathe.
Ghosts.
Hallucinations.
Had to be.
Rage appeared beside me, her eyes dark with suspicion. Her chest was heaving too, but her face was already composed—calculating.
"Who was that?"
I hesitated.
