Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The train doors open. “This is your stop,” I say.
She doesn’t move immediately.
Neither do I.
Then she steps around me and onto the platform. I follow her out before the doors can close.
She turns fast. “Are you going to keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Following me.”
“Until you stop chasing this.”
Her laugh is soft and humorless. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I know.”
The platform is less crowded here. White tile, old advertisements, fluorescent light that turns everyone a little paler than they are.
She looks anything but pale.
“What happened to Halstead?” she asks.
Finally.
She admits what she’s after. I already knew, but having her say it gives it a true finality.
The past is coming back to haunt my father. My brothers.
And me.
I hold her gaze. “You’re closer than you think,” I say.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“For now?” Her voice is quiet. Almost intimate.
I take one step toward her. “Forever,” I say.
Then I turn and walk toward the stairs before I do something wildly stupid like kiss her again. I make it halfway to the street before my phone is in my hand.
“Status,” I say when the line connects.
“We’re still working on the second vehicle from last night.”
“Find it.”
A pause. “We will.”
I end the call and keep moving.
Delaney Cross thinks she’s looking for answers about Victor Halstead.
She is.
What she doesn’t understand yet is that the answer she’s moving toward isn’t a fact.
It’s a door.
And if she gets it open—
There’s no version of this where either of us walks away unchanged.
14
DELANEY
The sky hasn’t fully darkened when I reach my building. I head up to my apartment, slide my key into the lock, and—
I gasp.
The door is unlocked.
I always lock it.
Always.
Still, I stand there for a second, staring at the handle like maybe I’m wrong. Like maybe I rushed out earlier, distracted, thinking about Samson Vexley and the way his body might feel against mine…
No.
I don’t make mistakes like that.
Not about my safety. Not about my space.
A cold awareness spreads through me as I push the door open. I step inside and close the door behind me without taking my eyes off the room.
At first glance, everything looks exactly the same.
Couch. Table. Desk.
Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. Nothing missing.
Then I see it.
The drawer in my desk. It’s barely open. Half an inch, maybe less. But I didn’t leave it like that.
I look around, sharpening my gaze. The book on the coffee table is shifted slightly off center. The throw blanket across the back of the couch is folded wrong.
My laptop is where I left it but angled differently.
The place isn’t trashed. No. This was done methodically. It was searched, with everything placed back just so. That feeling when you’re not sure if anything has been touched because clearly everything has.
My stomach tightens.
Whoever was here didn’t rush. They took their time.
I move to the desk and open the drawer. Everything is there. Pens. Notebooks. Receipts.
I close the drawer slowly.
Then I scan the rest of the apartment again. Nothing is gone. Whoever was here wasn’t looking for something specific.
No.
They were checking. They wanted to know what I know.
A chill slides down my spine.
I move to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a long swallow.
I brush my arms, trying to ease the feeling that microscopic insects are crawling all over me.
Someone stepped into my space. Left without a trace.
I set the glass down.
The contractor.
The lock.
The timing.
Victor Halstead.
Fifteen years ago.
Something happened that night that didn’t make it into any official report.
And now someone knows I’m getting close.
A knock hits the door. I jump without meaning to.
I walk to the door and look through the peephole.
Samson Vexley. He’s still wearing the dark suit without a tie, the shirt open at the collar. He clearly followed me.
“What do you want?” I ask through the door.
“Let me in, Delaney.”
Why not? He kissed me on the subway, and my lips are still tingling from it.
I open the door.
He walks in and immediately scans the place, taking everything in. When he finally looks at me, his amber eyes are heavy-lidded. “You need to stop,” he says.
“No.” The word comes out before I even think about it.
“Delaney—”
“No.” I step forward. Close the distance. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His eyes darken.
Not anger.
Something heavier.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he says.
“You keep saying things like that,” I tell him.
“Because it’s true.”
He’s probably not wrong. I mean, someone clearly searched my place today. While I was out, doing more research—
“Who was here?” I demand. “Who broke into my apartment?”
But he doesn’t reply. Instead, he advances. Grips my shoulders hard. Enough to startle the hell out of me. Enough to bruise.
“How dare—”
He shoves me back against the wall, and this time it hurts. But before I can protest, his mouth is on mine, his tongue demanding entrance.
I keep my lips locked tight, even as my body betrays me, aching to let him in.