Chapter 20 Geneva
GENEVA
Unknown: Actions have consequences.
I stare down at the screen, my fingers tightening around my phone as I reread Ghost’s message. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I rise and begin pacing, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor.
Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, charged with anger.
I could call my boss. I should call Allen and let him know Ghost has been sending these messages and that he’s threatening me now.
But then I’d have to explain why I didn’t say anything when the texts first arrived, and…
that’s a rabbit hole I’m not ready to dive into.
Besides, what’s the point? There’s no way Ghost can actually do anything. He’s locked up, behind bars where he belongs. Whatever power he thinks he has, whatever manipulation he’s trying to pull, it starts and stops with the phone.
I march into my bedroom, grab my gym bag, then my shoes and jacket. If Ghost thinks he can get in my head and make me doubt myself or make me too scared to leave my own apartment, he’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
As I step outside, the cool evening air hits my face, clearing my mind a bit. The city lights blur as I walk at a brisk pace. I need to move, to breathe, to get out of my head.
I retrieve my phone, tempted to text him back, to tell him exactly what I think of his threats. But I stop myself. That’s what he wants.
Instead, I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep walking, the weight of Ghost’s threat still lingering in the back of my mind. He’s just trying to scare me. He can’t do anything. He’s in prison. He can’t touch me.
The neon “24-Hour Gym” sign flickers against the black sky, its buzz low and constant as I push open the door.
The space is mostly empty at this hour, just a few dedicated souls pounding away on the treadmills or lifting weights in the far corners.
It’s quiet enough, and that’s what I need right now.
I move to the locker room, slipping into my workout gear. The familiar routine of pulling on leggings, lacing up my sneakers, and tying my hair back is calming.
Discipline. Order. Efficiency.
This is the only way to keep my life from falling apart. Every action pulls me a little further away from the chaos swirling inside my head. Away from Ghost’s words, his threats, his dark promises. I can’t control him, but I can control this.
I step out into the gym, the smell of rubber mats and disinfectant filling the air. I head straight for the punching bag in the corner, the one that’s seen better days, its leather worn and cracked.
I wrap my fingers, tightening the strips of cloth around my knuckles. The feeling of my hands protected and ready to fight soothes me.
The first punch lands with a satisfying thud against the bag. The force of it ripples through me, and I exhale, my breath a sharp hiss. I hit again, harder this time, the impact vibrating up my arm. With every strike, the tension in my body ebbs a bit more.
Ghost’s voice is still there in the back of my mind, taunting me. I slam my fist into the bag again, picturing his face—his smirk, that insufferable look that always says he knows something I don’t. The impact vibrates through my arms, sharp and satisfying.
My knuckles throb, the dull ache intensifying with every bit of forceful contact, but I don’t stop. The pain is good. It grounds me, gives me something tangible to focus on.
I hit harder, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as I push myself further.
Sweat drips down my face, and the rhythmic sound of my fists colliding with the worn leather echoes around me.
There’s no room for anything else in my mind but the bag, the burning in my muscles, and the steady throb in my hands.
For a moment I pause, resting against the wall, breathing hard as I wipe the sweat from my brow. The gym hums quietly, machines whirring in the background, but it’s mostly empty. Just a few stragglers on the treadmills who glance at me on occasion, their expressions wary.
Can they see the demon chasing me? Can they hear his voice?
I punch the bag again, then again, until my arms scream with exhaustion and my legs tremble. Only when I can barely stand do I finally stop, my breath ragged, my body spent.
I slowly unwind the wraps from my hands, wincing as the fabric peels away from my skin. I stare down at my knuckles, the skin cracked and bleeding. My body has taken punishment so my mind could be at peace.
The streets are quieter when I step back outside, the city deepening in repose. As I walk, I reach for my phone, half-expecting another message from Ghost. But the screen is blank. No taunts. No threats. Nothing.
A moment of peace? Or a calm before the storm?
I head home, each step slower than the last as the exhaustion creeps in. When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me with a sense of relief.
This is one of the few times that being alone isn’t the worst thing.
I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my jacket before jumping into the shower. After that, I throw on sweats and a t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed with a groan. The exhaustion is welcome, numbing the edges of my mind. Eventually, the dull hum of the city outside lulls me to sleep…
My phone chiming with a notification yanks me from repose. I groan, blindly reaching for it on the mattress. Once located, I squint at the screen, my fingers fumbling as I unlock the device.
The light is too bright, too harsh against the darkness of my bedroom, and it takes me a moment to read the words.
Unknown: Good morning, Dr. Andrews. Turn on the news.
I sit up quickly, my heart pounding against my ribs as I reread the message, trying to make sense of it. Dread weaves through me as my fingers hover over the screen. I’m hesitant to obey, but I have to know what’s going on.
After grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV and select the news channel. The reporter’s voice is solemn, heavy with the gravity of her story.
“Police have confirmed that a man was found dead in his downtown apartment early this morning, just after dawn. He has been identified as Mason Rivers…”
I freeze.
“Authorities are treating the case as a homicide.”
No. I shake my head, disbelief washing over me like ice water. No, no, no.
The image on the screen shifts to Mason’s building, police tape draped across the entrance, the flashing red and blue lights in the background. The reporter’s voice continues, but I can barely hear her. My mind is racing, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Mason is dead.
I watch in stunned silence as the details emerge, the sympathy in the reporter’s voice doing nothing to soften the brutality of what was done to him.
The word “torture” is mentioned, and I flinch, the horror of it sinking in.
She doesn’t go into specifics, but the implication is there, thick and suffocating.
Nausea hits me so hard that I slump onto the mattress as the room spins. I wanted him out of my life. But not like that. Mason didn’t deserve this ending.
It wasn’t just murder. Someone made him suffer.
A cold thought slips into my mind, and my stomach churns violently. Ghost. It had to be him. But how? He’s in prison. He couldn’t have done it himself.
Or did he?
Ghost is nothing if not resourceful. He could have hired a hitman to do the job for him. He must have influence. Power that reaches far beyond those bars.
I cling to that thought because the alternative—Ghost physically breaking out and doing this himself—is too terrifying to consider. If he can orchestrate something like this from behind prison walls, there’s still a level of separation. It’s less personal. He didn’t do it with his own hands.
But that thought doesn’t comfort me. Mason’s dead because Ghost wanted it. He told me so in person. I didn’t want to believe it then, but I sure as hell do now.
A sharp knock on my door shatters the silence. I nearly jump off my bed as a cold wave of fear washes over me. Another knock sounds, more insistent this time. It’s too early in the morning for visitors. And it’s not Ghost.
He wouldn’t knock.
My body moves on autopilot as I get to my feet and shuffle toward the door. I unlock it with trembling fingers and pull it open, revealing two police officers standing in the hallway, their expressions grim.
“Dr. Geneva Andrews?”
“Yes,” I reply, my throat dry.
The second officer steps forward, his hand resting lightly on his belt. “I’m Officer Kwan. This is Officer Jacob. We’re… we’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. Mason Rivers was found dead in his apartment this morning.”
“I just saw it on the news.” I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
The officer nods. “We know this might be difficult, but we need you to come down to the station. Just a few questions to help move the investigation along since you were one of the last people to contact him. We want to catch whoever did this as quickly as possible.”
“Okay, give me a second.”
I grab my jacket and phone, sending a quick text to Allen so he knows I’ll be late for work. The officers step aside, allowing me to close the door before leading me down the hallway. My mind spins, a chaotic jumble of conflicting thoughts.
Ghost is responsible for this.
But how do I explain that without sounding insane myself?