Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER TEN

Hannah Smith's heels clicked against the polished floor of her gallery as she made her final rounds. The evening pressed dark fingers against the windows, transforming the space into a maze of shadows and reflective surfaces. Her own image multiplied in the glass cases displaying delicate sculptures, each reflection seeming to move independently in her peripheral vision.

Something felt wrong tonight. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what had triggered her unease—perhaps the black sedan that had been parked across the street since lunch, or the way the evening shadows seemed to shift and breathe when she wasn't looking directly at them. The feeling had started around closing time, when the last potential buyer had lingered too long near the door, asking questions that went nowhere.

She checked her phone again: 8:47 PM. The screen's glow cast strange shadows across the modern art pieces, making the abstract sculptures look alive and predatory in the dimness. Three missed texts from her sister about their breakfast plans tomorrow. Hannah typed out a quick response, her fingers hesitating over the keys. Should she mention her unease? No—Melissa would only worry, and there was probably nothing to worry about anyway.

Just finishing up. Definitely still on for breakfast. Corner Cafe at 9?

The reply came almost immediately: Perfect! Don't work too late. Love you.

Hannah smiled, but the expression felt forced. The gallery seemed too quiet now, too empty. The security system's soft beeping as she entered the code echoed off the high ceilings, and she found herself glancing over her shoulder at nothing. She'd read the newspaper articles about the murders—everyone had. Two women dead in as many weeks, their bodies arranged like some twisted art installation. The thought made her stomach clench.

Outside, the evening air carried the crisp bite of autumn, tinged with car exhaust and the lingering warmth of a Texas October. Hannah pulled her blazer tighter, her keys a reassuring weight in her hand. The black sedan was still there, half-hidden in shadows. As she watched, a figure shifted in the driver's seat, and she quickly looked away.

The streetlights cast pools of warm light on the sidewalk, creating dark spaces between that seemed to pulse with possibility. Hannah's pace quickened, her heels striking a sharp rhythm against the concrete. Was that movement behind her, or just her imagination playing tricks? The sound of distant traffic seemed muffled, as if the world were holding its breath.

Something caught her eye—a splash of unexpected color along the building's foundation. She slowed, despite her instincts screaming at her to hurry. There, nestled against the brick, were clusters of spring flowers. Daffodils and tulips, their delicate petals luminous in the streetlight. She frowned, trying to remember if she'd noticed them earlier. Who would plant spring bulbs in autumn?

The newspaper articles flashed through her mind: ...spring flowers woven through the victim's hair... seasonally inappropriate blooms found at both crime scenes...

Footsteps behind her now, definitely real. A shadow detached itself from the darkness between streetlights. Hannah fumbled with her keys, her heart thundering against her ribs. The parking garage was still thirty feet away. Her phone was in her hand before she consciously decided to reach for it, but her fingers felt clumsy and slow.

Something sweet and chemical filled her nostrils—a cloying scent that reminded her of art restoration solvents. Her knees began to buckle. The phone slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering against the sidewalk. As consciousness faded, her last thought was of those impossible flowers blooming in the wrong season, their pale petals seeming to glow like tiny moons in the gathering dark.