Chapter 1
Chapter 1
T he September day dawned golden and glorious, ushering in a cool breeze, sunlight thick as molasses, and the third drowning in five days.
“Hey, Raegan,” the barista—Sam, was it?—greeted as she approached. “The usual? Don’t typically see you so early.”
Four more text messages from her editor lit up Raegan’s phone in rapid succession. She sighed. “No, I’m gonna do a sixteen-ounce drip today,” she replied, digging her knuckles into still-sleepy eyes. “To go. The strong shit, please.”
The barista rang her up, and Raegan paid, digging into the pockets of her long woolen overcoat for a crumpled dollar bill, which she dropped into the tip jar. She skirted the small crowd of customers awaiting their orders at the pick-up counter, instead moving to lean against one of the café‘s floor-to-ceiling windows. On the other side of the glass, the sidewalk teemed with morning rush-hour traffic: men in suits and screaming schoolchildren and people running late for their bus. All things she normally avoided by not waking up this fucking early.
Her order appeared on the counter, and Raegan snatched it, taking a large gulp that seared her tongue. She slammed on a travel lid and made her way to the side door. Outside, the remaining puddles and water droplets from last night’s rainstorm shimmered in the sunlight, winking at her as if secrets sailed on their shallow depths.
She felt the buzz of more texts arriving and ignored it, though she lengthened her stride, suspicion curling in her belly. Her editor, Henry, trusted her the most out of his team of reporters, valuing her quick, ruthless mind, and unerring ability to connect the dots. And Raegan felt pretty sure Henry’s early morning distress call, today’s drowning, and the lead crime reporter’s emergency gallbladder surgery were all going to tie up in a neat little bow. A bow that might very well knot itself around her neck.
When her phone rang half a block from the subway station, Raegan sighed, moving her coffee into her left hand and shifting the weight of her leather shoulder bag. She dug the phone out from her pocket, unsurprised by the name on her screen.
“I’m about to get on the subway,” Raegan said after answering the call. “How many times are you going to call me, Henry? You could at least tell me why you want me in the newsroom right this second. I hate waking up early. Almost as much as I hate surprises.”
“I’ll explain everything when you get here,” Henry replied, his voice even despite Raegan’s venomous tone. “Sorry. It’s a shitshow.”
“Isn’t it always?” Raegan drawled, making use of the last few seconds ticking down on the crosswalk display. She took a running step to clear the puddle around the curb, the heavy lug soles of her boots thudding on the sidewalk. Up ahead, the mouth of the subway station yawned wide.
“Look,” Raegan said, interrupting something Henry was saying about a meeting with the managing editor of the paper. “I’m about to head into the station, so I’m gonna lose you. See you in a few, okay?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Henry replied, distracted. Raegan could make out what sounded like a loud conversation, or an argument, in the background. “See you in a minute.”
Raegan hung up, shoved her phone into her pocket and then descended the stairs. The subterranean dimness was a welcome relief—the sun had been stabbing its yellow fingers into her eyes all morning. She wove through the station’s bowels, arriving at her platform with only a light sheen of sweat dampening the small of her back.
Gray concrete hunched all around her, abandoned Styrofoam containers and torn plastic bags scuttling across the tracks below. Other subway riders dotted the platform, mostly consumed by their phones, a few with their noses buried in books.
The screech of an incoming train shattered the air. She watched it approach, the dull silver of its mechanical hide glinting in the darkness of the subway tunnel. After boarding, she settled into a seat. The scratched orange fiberglass was slippery beneath her overcoat. She tilted her head back and drew a deep breath. The air smelled only faintly of piss at this hour, a pleasant surprise. As the train pulled away from the station, she tried her best to ignore the pop song blasting from someone’s phone. Every day, Raegan got a little closer to strangling people who didn’t think headphones were necessary in public spaces.
As her destination grew closer, a migraine thudded in her skull and irritation boiled poisonous in the pit of her stomach. God, it was only Wednesday. She sunk into her seat as the subway slowed to a halt, the sticky floor gluing the soles of her boots to the ground. Raegan scanned the busy platform through the windows in that way she usually did—always searching, just in case.
The outline of a tall figure leaning against the station’s wall snagged Raegan’s attention. The person read as masculine, clearly and aggressively so, at least a head taller than the other commuters milling about. He was dressed in nondescript but well-fitting black clothing; the way the fabric pulled at his broad shoulders spoke to hard-earned, coiled muscle. He carried no bag, and his casual stance—one hand in his pocket, weight evenly distributed—seemed deadly somehow.
As Raegan looked more closely, transfixed for a reason she could not place, she took in dark tumbles of wavy black hair, an unusually angular face, and a full, sculpted mouth that contrasted with the sharp jaw and knife-like cheekbones. The subway door slid open, and their gazes met for the barest of seconds. Even in the flickering underground light, she could see his eyes were a deep, unusual shade of gray, like the ocean in a storm.
All thoughts of the early morning and her frustration with Henry’s weirdness and even the jarring chorus of the pop song melted away entirely. Raegan’s heart leapt, familiarity crawling up her throat. A busker’s violin music slipped through the subway car’s open door like a silk scarf, the notes sweet as honeycomb. An entire sea swelled in her chest. Her breath caught, a broken-winged swallow in her throat, and desire crept up from between her legs. Pain bloomed in her fingers from how hard she was gripping the edge of her seat, nails scrabbling for purchase on the slippery surface.
And then the doors shut and the train rambled off. Raegan collapsed back, her breath coming in hard and fast. Her muscles flexed, ready to do whatever was necessary to get back to him. An alien thought rose in her mind: all she had ever done was try to get back to him. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe through the yearning unspooling in her chest. Dropping her head into her hands, Raegan fought hard to stay in the moment, in her body.
“Breathe,” she murmured, suddenly incapable of remembering anything her therapist had told her to do when her mind scrambled to assign meaning to the meaningless. “Just breathe.”