Chapter 2
Sloane
The cold slices into me, brutal and sharp.
My lungs burn, my legs scream for me to stop.
I keep moving, flying down one street, veering into the next.
Trash bags piled high along the sidewalks.
Bicycles chained to the rusted fences of playgrounds.
Streetlights burning white-hot against the dark.
His footsteps getting louder and louder, and he's going to catch me. He's going to kill me too.
Maddy's face flashes in my mind. The shock in her warm brown eyes. The blood pooling around her body as she bled onto the ground. It doesn't seem real. None of this seems real. I didn't even watch her die, but somehow her scream is echoing in my ears. I can't stop hearing it.
I shove past a couple coming out of a bar. A woman with cigarette breath yells as I crash into her. The guy with her swears and turns like he's going to come after me, too. I run harder, fighting the stitch in my side, ignoring the blur of street names I barely recognize.
People are everywhere now. Laughter and drunken voices.
I dart through the crowd, slamming into a man in a wool coat, spinning off him, and landing hard against a parked car.
I can't feel my hands. I can't feel anything but the white heat of my pulse, the scrape of my sneakers against asphalt, the blinding panic.
My chest is about to burst. But Maddy's dead. Maddy's dead, and I can't stop running.
He's still there. Close enough that I swear I can hear him breathing.
I round another corner. Brighter lights. More people. The chill of the night air, thick with exhaust and shouts. Maybe I can lose him. Maybe I can live.
A siren wails somewhere nearby. The traffic and noise build to a thundering, confusing blur.
I stumble, feet tangling beneath me, but somehow I'm still going.
A splash of color in the distance. The 24-hour diner Maddy loves, with the neon pink cupcake glowing.
My chest caves in with a sob. I have to make it. I just have to.
A hand clamps on my shoulder, spinning me around. I scream. A wild, terrified sound that shreds my throat. I kick at the hand, shrug it off, and dart across the street. More voices shout. Car horns blare. My foot catches on a pothole, but I stay upright. I'm getting away. Somehow, I'm getting away.
Past the gas station and a row of late-night bodegas. The reflection of my own panicked face in the dirty windows. Lips blue with cold. Hair flying in every direction. A scarf tripping me up as it slides from my neck. My face, and then his. Closer. Closer.
I dart into a narrow alley, half-lit and filled with trash cans. It smells like old garbage and snow. The shouts from the street fade to a dull hum. The sound of his footsteps, so close. Too close.
I tear out the other side, skidding onto the sidewalk, and I run. I run until my legs give out, and then I run some more. My vision blurs. The world spins. I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't think.
But I'm still alive.
That thought hits me like an electric jolt. I'm still alive. I whip around and look behind me. The footsteps are gone.
It's been seconds. Hours. I can't tell. My heart still thuds against my ribs, fast and wild. But the street is empty.
Empty!
I slow to a jog, then a walk, staggering to the wall of a bodega. I lean there, feeling the cold bricks through my jacket. I gasp for air, trying to get enough breath to work my fingers. I fumble for my phone, hands shaking, numbed with fear.
I pull it out, hit the first number I can. A muffled, low ring on the other end. The police. I've called the police. They'll come. They'll help.
"Not your smartest move."
I whip around, the phone slipping from my fingers, cracking against the sidewalk.
He's here. The man who killed Maddy. Not ten feet away.
Leaning against the building like he's been there the whole time.
Like he wasn't just chasing me through the streets.
He's older than me. Mid thirties, maybe.
A mess of dark curls and a faint shadow of stubble along a sharp jaw.
A leather jacket over broad shoulders, over a dark shirt and darker jeans.
I can see a glint of metal, the barrel of a gun peeking from his waistband.
The streetlight casts harsh shadows across the planes of his face, catching in his eyes, a startling blue, cold as winter ice but somehow burning with intensity.
My pulse, already racing, kicks into overdrive.
Fear mingles with something I don't want to name, something that makes my skin flush despite the freezing air.
"The cops won't help," he says, straightening, his voice low and gruff. "Not with this."
He could kill me. He could've done it already.
Instead, he's standing there, talking, and I don't get it.
I don't get any of this. My breath comes in jagged bursts, painful and shallow.
The cold air burns my lungs, but I'm suddenly aware of other sensations too, the faint scent of leather and something spicy coming from him, the breadth of his shoulders as he shifts his weight, and the strange electricity that seems to vibrate in the small space between us.
"Who are you?" I choke out. "Why haven't you—" My voice cracks. "Why haven't you—"
"Haven't I what?" he says, almost amused. "You're faster than you look."
I stare at him. Everything's spinning. My heart's hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it, a wild drum against my ribs.
He takes a step closer, and I press back against the wall, trapped between brick and his imposing presence.
He moves with a fluid grace that seems impossible for someone so solid, and despite my terror, I can't help but notice how the leather of his jacket stretches across his shoulders, how his gloved hands flex at his sides.
"You killed her." It comes out as a whisper, my words forming thick clouds in the frozen air. "You killed Maddy."
I expect him to deny it. To laugh or say I'm crazy or maybe just shoot me right here. But he only shrugs.
"That was the Callahans," he says, watching me closely. "Not me."
I blink at him, trying to make sense of anything.
"The who?"
He steps closer, looming. I flinch but hold my ground. My knees feel like jelly, but somehow I'm still standing. I catch his scent again, leather and spice with notes of tobacco and something uniquely him. It's intoxicating in a way that makes no sense, not when I should be running for my life.
"The Callahans," he says again, more slowly, as if he's talking to a small child. "They're the ones who killed your friend."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. I don't know what to say, what to ask. He waits, his gaze never leaving my face. The intensity of his stare makes heat rise to my cheeks, and I hate myself for it. Hate how my body seems to betray me, reacting to him in ways it shouldn't.
"Why are you telling me this?" I finally manage.
"Because you accused me," he says, deadpan. I can hear the steady thrum of traffic in the distance, the jarring contrast to the suffocating stillness around us. My heart still beats like a bass drum.
"So, you're not a killer?"
The words tumble out of me in a rush. I wait for his answer, hardly breathing. My fists clench, waiting for him to respond. When he tilts his head, I notice the strong column of his neck, the pulse beating steadily there. So different from my own racing heartbeat.
He tilts his head and takes a step closer, sizing me up, deliberate.
"I never said that," he says, and I shiver. His eyes don't waver. "But I didn't kill her."
He means it. The sureness in his voice, the way he holds my gaze.
Somehow, I believe him.
My brain is working a million miles a minute.
Nothing makes sense. I'm alive, but Maddy's dead.
The man moves again, and the streetlight catches his features at a different angle.
Despite everything, I can't help but notice how handsome he is, in a dangerous, unsettling way.
The kind of handsome that warns rather than welcomes.
My stomach tightens with something that isn't just fear.
"Who are you?" I ask again. My voice sounds steadier this time. "How do you know who…?" I can't say the words.
He tilts his head. His eyes are dark and unreadable. "I know a lot of things."
I'm going to punch him. I'm too tired to run, but I can still punch him. "Like what?"
"Like the cops won't help. They're on the Callahans' payroll."
My mouth is dry. "And you're not?"
"Do I look like a cop?"
"You look like a jerk."
For a second, the shadow of a grin. Then it's gone. He shrugs again, like all of this is nothing. Like Maddy's death, chasing me halfway across the city, showing up here is just a normal Tuesday night for him. Maybe it is.
"I know how to keep you alive, if that's what you want," he says.
"I want to know why you're helping me."
His eyes catch mine, holding them, daring me to look away. "You interest me," he says. "Either brave or stupid."
"And you're just...what?" I challenge. "Trying to figure me out?"
"Maybe." He sounds like he's enjoying this. Maybe I'm the first interesting thing to happen in a while.
My lips curl into a sneer. "You didn't answer me. Who are you?"
This time, a full-blown grin. A flash of white teeth.
It doesn't reach his eyes, but somehow it's realer than anything else that's happened tonight.
It transforms his face, softening the hard edges just enough to make my breath catch.
"Someone who knows more than you do," he says, maddeningly vague.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying to look like I'm not freezing. Trying to ignore how that smile affects me, how it sends an unwelcome warmth spreading through my veins. "And you want to share all that useful knowledge...why?"
He stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that I think maybe he's changed his mind. That maybe now he will shoot me, leave me on the sidewalk with my cracked phone and the stupid belief that he wasn't going to kill me.
Instead, he turns on his heel and walks away. "Come with me if you want to know."
I should stay here. Wait for the cops that he says are never coming. Call someone. Run some more.
But the name Callahan rings in my ears.
The alley is darker than I remembered. He's already halfway down it when I start to follow.
He doesn't slow down, doesn't turn around, but I can feel his satisfaction.
My feet move of their own accord, drawn to him by some force I don't understand.
Each step closer to him makes my pulse quicken, and not just from fear.
There's something magnetic about him, something that pulls at me despite every instinct screaming to run the other way.
I hate him a little for that. And for making me believe I might have answers.
It's freezing, but I'm sweating. I just ran a damn marathon.
"Not as fit as you thought, huh?" He sounds amused, the jerk. "Need me to carry you?"
I stop, giving him my best glare. He stands beneath a streetlight, his breath misting around him. The gun at his waist still in plain sight. For a second, I consider turning back. Consider trying my luck on my own, without him.
"You're freezing," he says, as though I don't know. "Put this on."
Something flies through the air and lands at my feet.
It's his leather jacket. He's just wearing a t-shirt now.
A really nice t-shirt that shows off the kind of muscles that a regular person shouldn't have.
I try not to stare at the way the fabric stretches across his chest, at the defined arms now exposed to the cold.
He doesn't even shiver, and I wonder if anything affects him at all.
"I'm fine," I say, teeth chattering.
"Brave and stupid, then," he replies, deadpan.
"I'm not freezing," I insist. "Just...chilly."
I'm a terrible liar. But somehow, I'm not scared of him. I should be. Maddy's dead, but I'm not scared.
"Chilly," he repeats, and I can't tell if he's about to laugh or call me an ambulance.
I pick up the jacket. It smells like leather and woodsmoke.
I shove my arms into the sleeves. It's warm.
And heavy. It carries his body heat, his scent enveloping me in a strangely intimate way.
I try to ignore how the lining feels against my skin, still warm from him, how just wearing his jacket makes me feel both protected and utterly vulnerable.
"Better?" He's teasing now.
"Don't you have any other girls to annoy?" I ask, catching up to him.
"Not tonight."
He starts walking again, not waiting to see if I'll follow.
The rest of the way is quiet. The streetlights flicker overhead.
An old woman walks a small, yappy dog on the other side of the street.
It's so normal it almost feels bizarre. My heartbeat still hasn't slowed, and I'm acutely aware of him beside me, his measured strides, the way he scans our surroundings, the heat that seems to radiate from him despite the freezing air.
"Are we there yet?" I ask after what seems like hours.
My legs are rubber, my breath coming in foggy bursts.
"You really don't know where you are, do you?"
He says it like it's some kind of weakness, like not having a sense of direction is worse than running away from a murder. My cheeks flush, but whether from embarrassment or the cold, I can't tell.
We round another corner, and I realize we're somehow in the middle of SoHo. The man buzzes into the nicest building on the strip and holds the door aside, giving me one last chance to back out.
"You coming?" he asks.
It's not the run-down dump I was expecting. Massive, for this area. Stark. A damn fortress nestled among Bohemian cafes.
"I don't think so." This suddenly seems like a terrible idea. My body is half frozen, my mind completely jammed, and I'm walking into the apartment of a man who may have just killed my best friend. I definitely shouldn't do this.
The man raises an eyebrow and tosses me a glance over his shoulder. "Suit yourself."
Just as the door is closing, I reach out and catch it, tugging it open, then I follow the T-shirt muscle man into his fortress.
Our fingers brush accidentally as we both reach for the door, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm.
He notices it too. I see his jaw tighten, the slight catch in his breath. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat too long.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I'm acutely aware that I've just willingly trapped myself with a dangerous stranger.
Even more disturbing is the realization that, despite everything—despite Maddy, despite the gun at his waist, despite his admission that he's a killer—I feel safer with him than I have all night.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a different kind of shiver down my spine.