"I... don't know."
Shut cut her eyes at me.
"You let her get away."
"I didn't—"
"She saw everything." Her voice was ice. Flat. Final. "If she talks to the cops, I'll kill you. Find her first."
I didn't kill women.
But that was the second problem.
I nodded, my jaw clenched.
As I turned back toward the empty street, my mind raced.
Who the hell had I just seen?
And why did she wear my dead wife's face?
Chapter Three — Vinny
Sleep wasn't an option after the warehouse.
Not with her face burned behind my eyes—Sophia, or whoever the hell she was.
I paced my apartment until the sun clawed its way over the skyline, then drove back like a man possessed.
The cops had already taped the place off. Yellow streamers fluttered in the breeze over dark, crusted bloodstains on the concrete.
A tomb now.
The surrounding blocks were their own kind of graveyard: hollow warehouses, crumbling buildings, and the desperate souls squatting inside them.
I scanned every face.
Every shadow.
Hunting for the ghost who wore my wife's face.
I wasn't delusional.
I knew it couldn't be Sophia.
But the resemblance was close enough to crack something open in my chest.
Close enough to make me question if I was finally losing my goddamn mind.
I printed an old photo of Sophia—one from the before, when her smile still lit up rooms.
Folded it carefully.
Tucked it inside my jacket.
And started walking.
The first group of homeless people gathered around a fire barrel eyed me like I was trouble.
