Chapter 9
Dahlia
The click of heels ricochets off wet pavement, too loud, too slow. Shadows stretch long across the alley, swallowing every turn. Footsteps hammer behind me, steady, merciless, a drum that drives me harder.
The walls creep inward, inch by inch, pressing against my shoulders. The slice of light at the far end shrinks to barely the width of a person.
Move. Move. Move.
Tears sting my eyes as my legs go heavy, desperately fighting through thick syrup with each step. The corridor squeezes tighter, and the air thickens until I can’t suck in a breath..
No. No, no.
The opening is right there. A breath away. Safety, if I can just slip through. I throw myself forward, but the ground tilts under me, a sudden drop. My hand shoots out for balance, palm scraping brick, skin splitting. The gap seals off, throwing me into darkness, caging me in.
God, please. Not this. Not now.
My nails bite into brick, clawing to get out, but I can’t feel the pain. Ice lances up my spine, and a raw, shuddering gasp rips up my throat when I hear the familiar voice.
“I will find you.”
A grip clamps around my wrist, iron strong, yanking me down.
I jolt awake, a strangled noise tearing from my throat.
Sheets coil around my legs, damp with sweat. My chest heaves, lungs clawing for air that refuses to fill them.
The steady hum of the laundromat below seeps through the floor, a low vibration that steadies my pulse.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
The room slowly stops spinning, and my fingers loosen one by one. Red crescents carve into my palms, joining the scratches that never seem to heal.
The clock glares. 4:13 a.m. Too early. Always too early.
The neighbor’s alarm rings through the wall, and I sag with relief at the familiar noise.
I peel myself out of bed, sheets still twisted from the night, and plant my feet on the floorboards. They groan under the weight, soft in spots where the wood’s worn thin.
I scoop the laundry into the basket waiting on the floor. A couple of pairs of jeans. A short stack of diner blouses. Socks that never match, no matter how I fold them.
The paint flakes against my arm as I squeeze past the wall to the door. Everything I own piles into a single load.
The air downstairs carries the faint bite of detergent, a clean scent that settles in my chest. Fluorescent lights hum above, throwing a soft sheen across the tile.
My socks slide as I cross to the row of machines, and the slip tugs at my lips.
I stuff my clothes inside, coins clinking into the slot, and the washer kicks to life with a shudder.
The sound is low and constant, water rushing in, the rhythm soothing as it echoes through the floor.
When the cycle finishes, I carry the basket back upstairs, light already spilling through the blinds.
The room glows in pale gold, every corner touched with warmth.
I press the coffee maker button and shake out yesterday’s uniform.
I smooth it across the drying rack with both hands, careful not to tug at the seams. My fingertips linger along the edges, tracing them flat until the blouse hangs neat and straight.
A quick shower later, I slip into the uniform, blouse tucked tight into the waistband of the skirt. I pin the name tag in place and face the cracked mirror above the sink. I’ll need to touch up my roots soon.
“Sarah.”
The letters glare back at me, borrowed and hollow. A name that isn’t mine, printed onto plastic so I can pretend to be someone else. Someone stronger.
Before I leave, I crouch at the window to check on my little buddy. The plant tilts sideways on the sill, and I tighten the string that holds it against the stick I rigged for support. When I first found it, half its leaves were brittle, the dirt cracked white.
I pour from a chipped mug, slow and careful. The soil drinks it down in seconds.
“You’re still hanging on,” I murmur, brushing a fingertip across the edge of a leaf. It dips under the touch, then bounces back upright, stubborn in its own fragile way.
It isn’t pretty. Thin stems. Curling edges. But it’s alive. Stronger than it was.
A little better each day.
Just like me.
The air outside bites cool against my skin, damp with the faint smell of rain. Shopkeepers heave up metal shutters, the town coming to life.
A sleek black car slides into view, and my stomach knots.
The hum of its engine fills my ears until it turns the other way.
I exhale, forcing the tension from my chest, and almost laugh at myself.
There’s no way they could find me here. I’ve changed my name, switched phones, and buried the old one in a drawer.
I force my stride steady. Count to ten with every exhale. By six, my shoulders ease. By ten, my heartbeat returns to normal.
The diner glows at the corner, a soft blue light spilling through the window. The bell over the door jingles as I push it open, the smell of bacon grease greeting me. Connie is already behind the counter, hair teased high, lipstick a little crooked, but her smile bright as ever.
“Early again?” She raises a brow with a look of concern.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Habit, I guess.”
She waves a rag at me and steps aside to grab a stack of menus. As she passes, her hand lands on my arm in a brisk pat. Quick, practical, but the contact lingers in my chest long after she moves away.
I tie on my apron, tuck the order pad in my pocket, and start wiping down tables. The door swings open again, and Amanda, one of the other waitresses, breezes in with a bright smile. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I’ll never be able to express just how much it means to me that these two women have welcomed me into their lives.
Amanda winks, moving past me to grab a pot of coffee.
The diner starts to wake around us. Boots scuff across the floor, chairs scrape, voices rise and fall in easy waves. Farmers with sunburned necks. Truckers with heavy-lidded eyes. Families crowding into booths, kids banging spoons on the table.
I pour coffee, write down orders, balance plates up my arm the way Connie showed me. The work is busy, but a good busy. The kind that keeps my hands moving and my mind quiet.
For a while, I almost forget the weight pressing down on me, and I almost feel normal.
“Sweetheart, look at you. Only here for a few months, and you fit right in.”
The words come from one of the regulars, an older man with a wide-brimmed hat.
He’s retired now, but his weathered hands tell the story of the years he’s worked in the town’s plant, where they manufacture car parts.
As the only decent-paying job, more than half of the people here either work or have worked there.
He winks as I set his plate down. I smile, thank him, and turn back toward the counter. My chest feels full in a way that almost hurts.
The diner quiets in the lull between lunch and dinner, the clink of silverware fading as the last customers leave. I wipe down a booth, rag moving in small circles, when the confident voice of a news anchor cuts across the silence.
“Breaking news. A major business deal was announced this afternoon…”
My head lifts before I can stop it. The screen above the counter flickers, colors bleeding together before sharpening into a face I know too well.
My stomach drops. His smile is the same as it was in the alley, wide and slick, full of teeth. The same smile that haunts my dreams.
The anchor’s voice carries on, naming him. Elliot Marlowe. Heir to Marlowe Corporation. The words scrape raw against my nerves. The room seems to sway, tables stretching farther away, Connie’s movements at the counter blurring.
Then another image cuts through the haze.
A crush of cameras, lights flashing, and for a second, I don’t recognize him. Then, his clear gray eyes catch mine through the screen, and my stomach plunges.
Xander.
Smiling beside Elliot Marlowe, their hands clasped like men who’ve known each other a long time.
The rag twists hard in my fist, fabric biting deep until my knuckles burn. Heat tunnels up the back of my neck. My vision prickles, narrowing, darkening at the edges.
I stumble through the kitchen’s swinging door, my shoulders clipping the frame. The air in the back is hotter and suffocating. My fingers fumble for my apron strings, but they slip free again and again. My hands shake too hard to knot anything.
Xander’s smile won’t leave me. The palm of his hand in Elliot’s. My mind claws at the image, desperate for sense.
The mouth that kissed me. The arms that made me feel safe. All of it tainted now, standing shoulder to shoulder with a killer.
My stomach turns at the thought that they’re connected. That Xander knows Elliot is chasing me.
The safety he wrapped around me burns away, leaving nothing but fear.