5. Laina
5
LAINA
“ I ’m just saying, you could text him,” Izzy’s voice crackles through the speakerphone as I pace across my small living room distracted by the faint hum of my laptop still glowing on my desk. “Or call him. Ace is a good guy, Laina.”
I let out a sigh and flop onto the couch, one knee pulled to my chest as I stare at the laptop screen across the room.
“Izzy, I’m not calling him,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We danced. He was nice. End of story.”
“That’s not the end of the story. You smiled, Laina. Like, actually smiled. Do you know how rare that is these days?”
I bite down on my lip, glancing toward the faint reflection of myself in the window. Pale skin, tired eyes, and dark shadows underneath that refuse to fade. “He doesn’t need my baggage, Izzy.”
“You’re not baggage Laina! You’re—ugh. You’re just frustrating sometimes, you know that?”
“No shit.”
“I’m just suggesting. It might do you some good to get laid.”
“Listen to who's talking,” I mutter, picking at the last bit of nail polish on my thumb.
“I know. Can you believe it? I used to be the prude and you were the wild one. So, what do you say? A little double date?”
“With who? You and your entourage of hot bikers? That sounds like a lot more than a double date.”
She laughs and I smile despite myself, leaning my head back against the cushion. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” she says with a chuckle.
There’s a beat of comfortable silence before Izzy’s voice softens and turns to concern. “So how are you doing tonight? Really.”
The smile slips from my face. My gaze flicks back to the computer screen, the faint glow making the shadows in my apartment feel deeper somehow.
“I’m fine.”
“You still having the nightmares?”
I swallow hard, the phantom weight of ropes on my wrists making my skin crawl. “Sometimes.”
“Laina…”
“I’m dealing with it, Izzy. Really.”
She doesn’t believe me—I can hear it in her silence. But she doesn’t push, and for that, I’m grateful.
“You know you can call me, right? Anytime. Day or night,” she says finally.
“I know.”
The line goes quiet again, but it’s softer this time, warmer.
“Alright,” Izzy says after a few seconds, exhaling slowly. “Try to get some sleep tonight, okay? And… think about calling him. Or texting. Just… something.”
“Goodnight, Izzy,” I say softly, my voice cracking just slightly at the edges.
“Goodnight, Laina.”
Once the call ends, the quiet settles back over my apartment like a thick fog. I stare at the screen across the room, the search bar still waiting.
I shouldn’t do it.
But I already know I’m going to.
I rise from the couch, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor as I move to my desk and sit down. My fingers hover over the trackpad for a moment before I click into the search bar.
Every night, I dig a little, just to see if there’s any new information about the Puppeteer. Any updates or if he’s been moved to another prison. The loading bar takes a moment before displaying hundreds of links.
The first headline hits me like a punch to the gut.
FORMER DETECTIVE REYNOLDS FOUND DEAD IN PRISON CELL — SUICIDE SUSPECTED
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as I click on the first article. The screen fills with paragraphs of text, but my eyes only focus on a few key phrases.
“…found dead in his cell…”
“…suicide by hanging…”
“…was removed from suicide watch weeks prior…”
“…internal investigation ongoing…”
I scroll down to the attached mugshot. Reynolds’ face stares back at me through the screen—hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, a hint of something cold and smug still etched into his features.
The edges of my vision blur as panic sets in, icy and sharp, threading itself through my veins. My breath quickens, my chest tightens, and my hands shake as they grip the edge of the desk.
“No,” I whisper out loud. “No, no, no.”
This isn’t right. This isn’t him.
Reynolds doesn’t give up. He doesn’t quit. And he sure as hell doesn’t kill himself.
I should feel relief that he is dead. That this nightmare is finally over. But I don’t.
The words on the screen swim as my mind races. The details are wrong—the timing, the lack of surveillance, the vague references to visitors. None of it adds up.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest. My gaze locks on one detail buried halfway down the page: ‘ Reynolds had a visitor two days prior. Listed only as Private Legal Counsel’
I cover my mouth with my hand, bile rising in my throat.
Someone visited him. Someone with enough power or secrecy to be listed as legal counsel.
And now he’s dead.
Or… they say he’s dead.
My skin prickles with dread as a terrible thought takes root in my mind. What if this isn’t suicide? What if it’s not even a cover-up?
What if Reynolds is alive?
What if he’s escaped and is back out in the world?
The sound of my pulse roars in my ears as I push away from the desk, stumbling backward. The glow of the laptop screen feels blinding now, casting long, sharp shadows across the room.
If Reynolds is out there, if he’s free… he’s coming for me. I was sure of it.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and I jump at the sound, my heart lodging itself in my throat. I grab it, my fingers trembling as I see a text from Izzy with Ace’s phone number.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should call her. I should tell her everything.
But then a noise outside my window stops me cold. A faint creak, like the weight of someone stepping on wood.
I freeze, every muscle in my body locking into place. Slowly, I glance toward the curtains. They’re closed, but I swear I can see the faint outline of something— someone —moving just beyond them.
My hand closes around the pistol in my desk drawer.
I back away slowly, my breathing shallow, my heart a wild, erratic rhythm in my chest.
“Get a grip, Laina,” I whisper to myself. “You’re imagining things.”
Outside, the night feels endless and dark.
I hurry to my bedroom, squinting as I stare at my camera monitors. There’s nothing on the live footage, just trees shaking in the wind. A car driving by.
I sink on the edge of my bed and exhale, staring at the four live camera feeds.
Front door—clear.
Back alley behind the building—empty.
Parking lot—a single car rolls by, its headlights sweeping across the cracked pavement.
Side hallway—nothing.
Everything looks… normal. But it doesn’t feel normal.
The quiet stretches thinly around me, taut and trembling like a thread about to snap.
Reynolds.
The image of his face—his mugshot, hollow and pale—burns in my mind.
Found dead in his cell. That’s what the article said.
But I know better.
He was a detective. All he has are friends and associates on the inside, people who are just as fucked up as him.
I march back to the kitchen, grab a bottle of wine, and my laptop. I make sure all the windows are locked and the security system is armed, then return to my room. I pop the cork off the bottle, forgoing a glass and take a long sip as I settle down on my bed.
One hand holds the wine bottle while the other starts typing, digging through forums and articles. My days as a photojournalist allowed me access to almost everything on the net, including the dark web.
“I’ll find you before you find me, asshole,” I mutter out loud.
I start searching, scouring online threads and forums of criminals. Anyone who might have an inkling of what this bastard is up to.
After about one hour, I find one comment on a post about his suicide:
‘We all know they didn’t let him hang himself. Warehouse near Route 19. Things still moving there at night. Watch your back.’
He had various warehouses when he was trying to run the marijuana industry and the biker gangs.
I should ignore it. I should call Izzy. Call Hawk. Call someone . But the words pulse in my head, sharp and insistent.
Izzy won’t believe me.
She’s going to tell me to focus on myself and not Reynolds. I grind my teeth together, weighing my options.
My gaze flicks back to the cameras one last time. Nothing. Just empty, still frames.
Alright.
I push off the bed and move quickly. My leather jacket hangs on the back of my door, and I shrug it on over my fitted black shirt. I tug on my boots, lace them tightly, and check the pistol one more time before slipping it into my jacket pocket.
I strap my camera over my shoulder.
I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob, glancing back at the monitors one final time.
Still clear.
I step out of my apartment, carefully lock the door behind me, and make my way to my car parked just outside.
It doesn’t take long to get to Route 19, and the secluded road that leads to the warehouse. As I turn onto the dirt road, I turn my headlights off and slow the car down, letting the tires roll as slowly as possible to a stop.
The tall redwoods reach overhead, blocking out the night sky.
I take five deep breaths, make sure my camera has a full charge, and triple-check that my gun has bullets before stepping out.
The warehouse looms in front of me, a jagged silhouette against the faint glow of the moon. Its skeletal frame rises out of the darkness, broken windows stare at me mournfully like hollow eyes. The gate hangs open, the lock is snapped, and fresh tire tracks cut through the mud leading inside.
I slip through the gate, my breath shallow. The air is thick with the scent of rust and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe. Gravel crunches softly under my boots as I move closer to the building, sticking to the shadows along the wall.
The main door is slightly ajar, creaking softly in the breeze. My pulse pounds in my ears as I slip inside, the cold air turning sharper as it swirls around me.
Inside, the space opens up into a cavernous void. Rusted machinery and forgotten crates are scattered across the concrete floor. Broken glass crunches faintly underfoot as I move deeper inside.
My flashlight stays off—I don’t want to risk being seen. Instead, I let my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls and ceiling.
Something feels… off.
A faint noise—a murmur of voices—drifts through the darkness toward me. My spine stiffens, and I freeze, straining my ears.
Voices. Male voices. Low and sharp, echoing from somewhere deeper inside the warehouse.
I crouch behind a stack of crates, my heart hammering in my chest as I inch closer. The voices grow louder and clearer until I can make out fragments of the conversation.
“…it just doesn’t add up.”
“It never does.”
“We should probably get back to Ash. Let him know that whoever was here earlier has been gone for at least a day.”
I press myself tighter against the crate, my breath catching in my throat.
I peek around the corner, squinting to get a better view, and swallow back a gasp of surprise as I see two familiar figures bathed in the faint glow of a flashlight. The same two from the cafe!
Ryder is standing with his arms crossed, his sharp green eyes scanning the dark corners of the warehouse. Dagger is beside him, his posture rigid, one hand resting casually near the pistol holstered at his side.
My chest tightens as I watch them, every instinct telling me to stay hidden.
“We shouldn’t even be here,” Ryder mutters, his voice low and sharp. “This feels like a setup.”
“You saw the same report I did. Activity here the past two nights. He’s been moving through this place.”
My stomach churns.
They know. They know something about him. How? Why?
I shift slightly, trying for a better angle, but my boot scrapes against a loose piece of metal. The sound cuts through the silence like a gunshot.
Shit!
Ryder’s flashlight swings sharply in my direction, its beam slicing through the dark like a knife. I freeze, pressing myself flat against the cold metal crate, my breath locked tight in my chest.
“Who’s there?” Ryder snaps, his voice cutting through the silence.
Dagger steps closer, his silhouette moving with the kind of predator-like grace that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. His head tilts slightly, sharp eyes scanning the shadows.
I don’t dare breathe.
For a long moment, they stand there, the flashlight dancing over stacks of crates and rusted machinery.
Ryder curses under his breath. “Probably just a rat,” he mutters.
Dagger doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, his hand still hovering near the pistol on his hip. “Let’s keep moving.”
Their voices grow quieter as they start walking in the opposite direction, their flashlight beams bobbing through the dark.
God. This was a terrible, awful dumb mistake.
I wait. Count to ten. Then twenty.
When I’m sure enough time has gone by, I begin to inch backward, one careful step at a time. I just need to get to the exit. Get back to my car and get the hell out of here before?—
Something grabs me.
A strong hand clamps down on my wrist, and before I can even gasp, I’m yanked sideways and pulled out from behind the crates. My shoulder collides with something solid—Dagger.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and curses. My back hits the cold concrete floor with a sharp thud as my pistol clatters out of my hand, sliding uselessly across the floor.
I’m pinned beneath him before I can react, his weight pressing me into the rough concrete. His face hovers inches above mine, his dark eyes sharp and furious.
“Well, well,” Dagger drawls, his lips curling into a slow smirk. “What do we have here?”
“Get off me!” I hiss, bucking against him, but he doesn’t budge.
“Oh, sweetheart, not until you start talking,” he says smoothly, his voice laced with amusement. “What the hell are you doing here, Laina?”
Footsteps echo nearby, and Ryder’s face appears above me, his flashlight casting a harsh glow over us. His sharp green eyes rake over the scene—the way Dagger’s body has me pinned down, my flushed face, and the pistol lying several feet away.
“Well, isn’t this interesting?” Ryder’s smirk is sharp and cocky, his head tilting slightly. “You know, if you wanted to see us again, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”
Dagger chuckles under his breath, and I glare up at them both, my face burning. “Let me go!”
“Not until you tell us why you’re skulking around a warehouse in the middle of the night carrying a gun,” Dagger says, his tone dropping into something colder, more serious.
Ryder crouches down next to me, his flashlight aimed off to the side. His expression softens just a little as he looks me over. “You know, sweetheart, this isn’t exactly the safest place for someone like you to be wandering around in. Alone. At night.”
“I’m not wandering , Ryder,” I snap, trying to sound braver than I feel.
Dagger raises an eyebrow. “So, what are you doing?”
I hesitate. The words stick in my throat because saying them out loud will make them real.
My pulse roars in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to keep my mouth shut. Ryder’s sharp green eyes lock onto mine, while Dagger’s weight pins me firmly to the cold concrete. Their faces are carved in sharp lines—curiosity, suspicion, and something darker flickering behind their eyes.
They’re waiting.
But I can’t tell them the truth. Not yet. Not without being certain I can trust them.
“I heard… rumors…” I say, my voice trembling despite my best effort to keep it steady, “rumors about this place. About people meeting here at night. I thought—I thought maybe I should check it out.”
Dagger’s brow furrows, and he studies me carefully, his head tilting slightly. “You’re telling me you wandered into an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night, alone , because of some rumors? Rumors you can’t tell us about.”
I swallow hard and reply shortly, “Yeah, that’s right.”
Ryder exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “Jesus, sweetheart, do you know how reckless you are?”
“I can take care of myself,” I snap back, though pinned beneath Dagger, it’s a hard sell.
“Oh, sure,” Ryder says with a smirk, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. “You’re doing great so far—pinned to the floor, your pistol ten feet away. Real intimidating.”
Dagger chuckles, but his weight doesn’t shift. His dark eyes remain locked on mine. This close I can make out the curve of his lips, the lines of his hard features, and the tattoo ink curling up his neck toward his ear.
Images of the dream I had about them flash through my mind. Their lips on my body, teeth grazing my nipples, their cocks… I shake my head to try and shove the images away, but they linger, mixing with the very real sensation of Dagger’s body against mine. The feel of his solid, muscular weight pinning me down, is stirring something carnal within me.
I squirm, trying to dislodge him, but it only makes him press down harder.
"Let me up," I hiss, glaring at him.
Dagger's lips twitch, and his eyes darken in amusement. "I don't think so, sweetheart. Not until you give us the real reason you're here."
"I told you-"
"Bullshit," Ryder’s voice, low and sharp cuts in. "You're a terrible liar Laina. Tell us what rumors? Who did you hear them from? Details, sweetheart.”
My lips press together into a tight line. If I say too much, they’ll know I’m hiding something. But if I say too little, they’ll only press harder.
What if they’re working with him?
“I can’t remember exactly,” I hedge, looking away from Dagger’s intense stare. “A comment online, about movement and suspicious activity at the warehouse on Route 19. I am a photojournalist after all.”
Dagger’s smirk fades into something colder. “You came out here because of an anonymous comment from the internet? Jesus. You’re either very brave… or incredibly stupid.”
“I’m not stupid.”
Ryder crouches lower, his face now level with mine. The playful edge in his voice has dulled, replaced by something sharper, and edged in warning.
“If you’re lying to us, sweetheart, we’ll know.”
“I’m not lying,” I insist, though the tremor in my voice gives me away.
For a moment, the three of us are locked in silence—the faint sound of wind whistling through broken glass above us is the only thing breaking it. Then, slowly, Dagger pushes himself off me and I suck in a sharp breath, before scrambling to get myself off the ground, Dagger hoists me up as though I weigh nothing. He dusts off my jacket.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice softer now.
“No. I’m fine.”
Ryder takes a step closer, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. “Well, fine or not, you’re coming with us. You shouldn’t be out here alone, and we’re not leaving you behind.”
My heart stumbles in my chest and I shake my head. “What? No. I’m not?—”
“Not a negotiation, sweetheart,” Ryder cuts me off firmly. “You’re out here playing detective in places you shouldn’t be, and if something is happening here—something dangerous—we’re not letting you get yourself killed over it.”
I glare at him, but he’s already turning away, leaving no room for argument. His flashlight is angled low as he starts walking toward the warehouse entrance.
Dagger falls into step beside me, his hand resting lightly near the pistol on his hip. “Stay close, Laina. And don’t try to run. It won’t end well for you if you do.”
I glance up at him, my stomach twisting at the casual authority in his voice.
“I’m not running.”
But even as I say it, my mind races with conflicting thoughts.
Ryder and Dagger might not be the enemy, but they’re not exactly heroes either.
I still have no idea if I can trust them. And they hadn’t yet explained what they were doing here either.
We walk back in silence, the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly in the hollow space. Ryder leads, his flashlight cutting a narrow path through the darkness, while Dagger lingers slightly behind me, his presence like a shadow at my back.
Every creak of metal and every faint gust of wind sets my teeth on edge, but don’t seem to rattle either man.
When we step outside, the sharp night air hits me in the face like a slap. The gravel crunches beneath our boots as we make our way toward their parked bikes.
“Where’s your car?” Ryder asks without turning around.
“Down the road,” I answer tightly.
“We’ll follow you back,” Dagger says. I can tell from his tone there would be no point in arguing with him.
My lips press into a thin line and I nod sullenly. “Fine.”
Ryder swings a leg over his bike, his movements smooth and practiced. He pulls his helmet over his head but leaves the visor up as he glances at me, waiting.
I briskly walk back to my car.
As I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, my fingers tremble slightly.
I hadn’t told them the truth. I had kept Reynolds’ name off my lips, but they’re not stupid—they know I’m hiding something.
And now, whether I liked it or not, I was tied to them.
As I pull onto the road, the rumble of their motorcycles fills the air behind me. Two headlights flare in my rearview mirror—steady, relentless.
Ryder and Dagger.
Watching me.
Following me.