Chapter 25 Geneva
GENEVA
Sarah and I settle into the backseat of the ride share. The hum of the engine vibrates through the seats as the driver pulls onto the quiet street. The air smells of the spicy dish Sarah insisted I try tonight, clinging to our clothes, a reminder of the good food and even better company.
The city is dark, dotted with the warm glow of streetlights and passing headlights.
Despite the calm surrounding me, there’s a tightness in my chest, one I’ve been trying to ignore all evening.
Sarah’s been good at keeping me distracted, but the silence between us now allows my thoughts to creep back in.
André Bisset and Luis Dominguez.
Their names have been replaying in my mind like a broken record since the moment Ghost gave them to me. I looked them up, using every government database at my disposal. Tools I wasn’t supposed to touch for something this personal, making every keystroke a gamble, a risk to my job.
And what did I find?
Nothing.
Not a single record. No criminal histories, no financial ties, nothing in the databases I’ve trusted for years. These men are ghosts, just like the man who gave me their names.
The disappointment lingers, a constant ache in the pit of my stomach. I can’t decide if it’s the failure itself or the thought that Ghost might have been lying. Maybe this was all just another game to him, another way to fuck with me.
I glance out the window, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across my face. My reflection stares back at me, distorted in the glass, and I wonder for the hundredth time if asking Ghost for information was worth this heartache.
Yes. I’ll chase any lead if there’s even the smallest chance it will bring me closer to the truth behind my parents’ murders. No matter what it does to me emotionally.
Sarah snaps her fingers in front of my face, dragging me back. “Earth to Geneva. Are you listening?”
I blink, forcing a smile. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t press. “I was saying you need to loosen up. Seriously, when’s the last time you had a little fun that didn’t involve analyzing someone’s psyche or reading some depressing case study?”
“I’m literally having fun right now,” I counter, waving my hand toward her as proof.
She scoffs. “This isn’t just fun. This is fun and me dragging you out of your self-imposed hermit hole for some basic human interaction. Bare minimum, Geneva.”
“Harsh.” I roll my eyes, but her words hit closer than I’d like to admit. She’s not wrong. Lately, my life has felt like an endless cycle of work and avoidance, as if I’m trying to outrun something. Or someone.
“Okay, let me rephrase,” she says, her voice softening. “I miss you. Like, really miss you. You’ve been… distant. Even for you. And that’s saying a lot.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, guilt tugging at the edges of my thoughts. “I know. I’m sorry. Things have just been… a lot.”
Sarah reaches over and squeezes my hand, her warmth cutting through the chill that’s been following me. “I know, but don’t let those things stop you from living your life. You deserve to be happy.”
“Thank you.”
“And nothing brings joy like shopping.” She grabs her phone, scrunching her forehead in concentration. “By the way, you still haven’t picked a dress. What about this one? It says, ‘sexy professional that wants to get bent over a desk,’ but without being too slutty.”
I laugh, not only in amusement, but out of pure happiness. Tonight is the first time that my best friend has acted like her old self. The person she was before the assault.
“Try again, but with less skin showing.”
“You’re no fun. Okay, hear me out. This one.” She tilts her phone toward me. The dress is sleek, floor-length, and emerald green, with just the right balance of elegance and edge.
I glance at it and shake my head. “Too bold.”
“Too bold?” Sarah’s jaw drops as if I’ve just insulted her personally.
“You’re literally the keynote speaker for one of the biggest fundraising events of the year.
You’re the university’s star alumna, Geneva.
You need bold. You’re not supposed to blend into the background like you do at work in that depressing office of yours. ”
“First of all, ouch. Second, I’m not trying to blend in,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “I just don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
She smacks my leg and looks at me as if I’m the one who just slapped her.
“Trying too hard? You’re going to stand in front of a room full of high-profile donors, alumni, and university hotshots because they’re basically worshipping you for being the only person who’s ever created a psych profile on him.
” She lowers her voice on the last word, leaning in closer like we’re swapping secrets. “I mean, come on. Own it.”
I shift in my seat, glancing out the window as the city lights streak past. “It’s not just about Ghost. They’re asking me to talk about my work in general. Convictions, profiles, and how psychology intersects with criminal justice. Those types of things.”
Sarah rolls her eyes dramatically. “Puh-lease. They’re asking you because you’ve put away, what?
Thirty? Forty criminals? And because you’re the only person in the world who’s had a front-row seat to the inside of that psycho’s mind.
” She pokes me lightly in the arm, grinning. “Face it, bestie, you’re a big deal.”
“I’m not—” I sigh, cutting myself off before I can finish the sentence.
There’s no point in arguing. Sarah’s right.
The university has made it clear that my keynote isn’t just about my achievements as a criminal psychologist; it’s about my connection to him.
Ghost. The man whose mind I dissected and mapped like some dark, endless labyrinth.
Except I never finished the psych profile.
And I won’t.
“They don’t even care about the speech,” I murmur, more to myself than to Sarah. “They care about the name attached to it. Ghost’s name is more than famous. It’s legendary now.”
“They asked you because you’ve worked your ass off.” Sarah softens, the note of teasing in her voice fading. “You’ve earned this. Yes, the Ghost thing is part of it, but it’s not the whole picture. Don’t discredit all the work you’ve done. Or all the people you’ve helped. Including me.”
Her words hit a tender spot. On impulse, I throw my arms around her. She hugs me back and pats my back as if I’m the victim. Not her.
Sarah doesn’t bring it up often, but when she mentions the way I testified in court, I want to smile and throw up. Prison is too good for Frank “Skinner” Burns. The serial rapist deserves to burn in hell and have his dick cut off. Not necessarily in that order.
When Sarah was crumbling under the weight of her trauma, I was there.
I helped her find her footing again, guided her through the storm she thought she’d never escape.
She’s always credited me for that, though I’ve never felt like I did anything extraordinary.
Listening, supporting, or even testifying—that’s what you’re supposed to do for the people you care about.
In the end, Sarah’s right. I’ve done important work that was due to my profession, and I should be recognized.
After pulling back, I exhale slowly, leaning my head against the headrest. “You’re right. They’re lucky to have me. I just hate public speaking.”
“I’m always right. Which is why you should let me pick your dress.”
“Fine.”
Sarah claps her hands, releasing a tiny squeal, and I immediately regret my decision. Or I would if her face wasn’t so joyful. I’d give that keynote speech butt-naked to make my best friend happy. Hopefully, she doesn’t consider that as an option.
The driver clears his throat, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “This your stop?”
I look out the window at my apartment building, the familiar silhouette looming in the dark. “Yeah.” I reach for the door handle but pause, turning to Sarah. “Promise me the dress will be something appropriate.”
Sarah grins, shaking her head. “Appropriate is not in my vocabulary. I’ll find you something that screams, ‘Professional who likes to get railed on the regular.’” She winks.
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks. I think.”
She waves me off, but her smile is warm. “Text me later, okay? And seriously, stop underestimating yourself. You’re going to kill it.”
“Thanks.”
I exit the car and step into the crisp night air.
As the ride share pulls away, taking Sarah with it, I stand there for a moment, staring up at my building.
The windows are dark, save for the glow of the one that belongs to me.
Everything looks as it should, but there’s an unease that crawls up my spine.
It’s something I’ve been experiencing ever since I first laid eyes on Ghost.
I shake off the unpleasant feeling and head toward the entrance. It’s just nerves from thinking about the keynote. Nothing more. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I walk into the elevator and press the button for my floor.
The doors slide open a minute later, and I step into the dimly lit hallway.
My footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor as I make my way to my apartment, fishing my keys from my purse.
I unlock the door and push it open with a sigh of relief.
The familiar scent of lavender greets me, coming from the diffuser I forgot to turn off.
Everything seems normal…
I lock the door behind me and set my purse down on the counter, flicking on the rest of the lights.
My apartment is quiet and peaceful. It’s my sanctuary from the evil in the world that I face every day.
But the longer I stand there, the more the sense of foreboding grows, until the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my breath catches in my throat.
Something’s different.
I can’t pinpoint it immediately, but the air is dense now, charged with an invisible tension.
My heart rate picks up as I scan the room, my gaze darting to every corner.
Finding nothing doesn’t stop me from striding across the room to grab the baseball bat by the back door.
Hefting it into a defensive stance, I make my way to my bedroom.
When I push the door open, I freeze.
On my bed, next to my stuffed elephant, sits a box. It’s pristine and beautiful, white and tied with a maroon ribbon that gleams in the soft light of the room. My stomach drops, and my pulse roars in my ears.
Eyes locked on the package, I take a step forward, my breathing shallow. The stuffed elephant, usually perched on my dresser, has been moved. The sight of it, paired with the box, makes my hands shake and the bat wobbles in my grasp.
I approach the bed slowly and reach out on instinct but stop just short of touching the ribbon. Who sent this to me? And how in the fuck did they get into my apartment?
My first thought is Sarah. It’s hopelessly na?ve of me, but that doesn’t stop my train of thought. She’s the only person who has a key. My friend could’ve snuck in earlier and left this gift here to cheer me up or to celebrate my achievements.
But I know Sarah. She wouldn’t do this. She knows how much I need my home to feel safe and untouched. On the off chance it was her, she wouldn’t have moved the elephant.
After setting my bat on the bed, I reach down and pick up the ivory card tucked under the ribbon. My fingers tremble as I open it, the elegant script staring back at me like a taunt.
Magnolias bloom, masking death’s decay.
Illuminating the shadows, where I wait.
Never let the flame that binds us fade.
Every breath you take is mine to claim.
The words blur as a wave of nausea washes over me. My knees go weak, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching the card in my hands. My heart pounds against my ribs, hard and fast, as if trying to escape my chest.
He was here.
Ghost was here, in my home. In my bedroom. The thought is paralyzing, and my body stiffens although my mind races with questions I can’t answer. How did he get in? How long was he here?
I glance around the room as if every shadow is alive and threatening. My breath comes in shallow pants as I clutch the card tighter, its words like a brand seared into my mind. The walls press in and the faint scent of magnolias fills the air. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s undeniable.
My eyes dart to the corners of the room, to the closet, the curtains, the doorframe. Every creak, every distant sound from the building amplified, echoing in my ears like a war cry.
Is he still here?
The bat is within reach and I grab it, rising to my feet despite the unsteadiness in my legs. The card flutters to the mattress, forgotten as my survival instinct takes over. If he’s here, I have to know.
The closet is my first choice. I slowly open the door like there’s a bomb about to detonate. And… nothing but my clothes and shoes.
I move to the bathroom next, ripping open the door with less hesitation this time. The space is empty, but that doesn’t stop my heart from jumping in my throat.
“Get your shit together, Geneva,” I mutter. “Ghost wouldn’t have left the box if he was planning on talking to you.”
I sweep through the rest of the apartment, checking every corner, every hiding place, until I’m certain there’s no one here. The sense of being invaded, of having my space violated, clings to me. The magnolia scent lingers, stronger now, filling the air with its oppressive sweetness.
Back in the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed with the bat resting against my knees. I look at the box again, the ribbon still perfectly tied, the pristine white surface untouched. Curiosity rises, too strong for me to ignore.
“Damn it.”
My hands tremble as I untie the bow and lift the lid, revealing the candle inside. It’s smooth, polished, and elegant. A benign object, yet so deadly because of the giver.
“Why?” I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Ghost wouldn’t send a meaningless token of affection. Everything he does has a purpose. It’s part of an ongoing strategy.
This candle is a message.
So, what is he trying to tell me?