3. Molly
Molly
I barely slept last night.
Every noise. Every bump. Every scrape made me startle.
Every word murmured in the hall sounded like him.
Every shadow which passed outside my door looked like him.
The bastard was haunting me.
I was wrung out and. Anxious. Jumping at shadows.
And it was all Keir’s fault.
Shaking my head, I crawled out from under the duvet, blinking my scratchy eyes at the weak morning sunlight trickling past the edges of the curtains.
Reaching out a tentative hand, I brushed my fingers across the stiff fabric, as I willed my fingers to flex, to take hold of the material and yank it back, to confront my hunter.
Finally, summoning the guts, I blinked at the street beyond the slightly smudged glass. People walked past, going about their day, but there was no sign of Keir’s intense, dark gaze.
Still, I knew he would come for me.
The bullet held too much weight to be anything but a challenge to the power Finnan Quinn held in his bloody hands.
By my best guess, I managed to drift off a couple of times last night, but I was always shocked back awake by the image of a specter with dark eyes. With one last glance at the street beyond, I decided my imagination was getting the best of me, besides I had to get ready for class.
After showering and pulling on a summer dress with a pair of sneakers, I threw on a hoodie, just in case it got cool later.
Finally, I slid a messenger bag over my head and started walking toward the coffee shop.
My shoulders ached with the knowledge that I had a metaphorical target painted on my back, causing my anxiety to rise.
By the time I arrived out the front, I was a sweaty mess.
Sucking in some calming breaths, I stepped inside and joined the already ten-person-deep line. As I waited to place my order, I scrolled through my phone, trying to distract myself with cat videos and by browsing my friends’ social media accounts.
My thumb froze when a new message appeared at the top of my screen. It was from an unknown number, and my heart seized in my chest.
Unknown number: Time’s up. Have you delivered the message?
The message.
Grady .
The line had moved, and I stepped up to the counter, leaving the message on read.
“Morning, Molly,” Sam said, as he smiled at me from behind the shiny beast of a coffee machine. He tamped the freshly ground coffee in the portafilter and slotted it into the group head, where the magic happened. “The usual?”
“Please,” I replied, before I quickly added, “Can I add a blueberry muffin? To go?”
“You got it.”
He winked at me, and though I flashed him a flirtatious smile, it didn’t reach my eyes. I was a chameleon, and I couldn’t afford to let my camouflage slip. The cashier put through my order and after paying, I stepped to the side to wait.
I was anxiously glancing around the coffee shop when my phone buzzed again. Letting out a slow breath, I looked down at the phone still in my hand and held back a sharp gasp.
Unknown number: Don’t leave me on read, bitch.
I started typing a reply when another message came through.
My hands trembled as I saw an image of my sister.
It was a picture taken from behind as she sat on the bus on her way to school.
I tried to dismiss the panic threatening to consume me, to reason that this could’ve been taken last week or last month.
Swallowing, I attempted to use my analytical brain to look at this from an outside point of view instead of a knee-jerk reaction.
I had to consider this may be a ploy to ensure I played his game.
In the photo, my sister had her head bent over her phone, scrolling through what looked like a news site.
The angle was from the seat opposite hers and one back so that I could see her profile, and her lips were tipped up as she read something on the screen.
Touching my fingers to the screen, I pinched and expanded the shot, trying to glean some more information.
There was an image I couldn’t quite make out, but the headline told me enough.
It was a story about a dog who had learned how to surf—trust my sister to be invested in that fluff.
I zoomed in a little further and caught a glimpse of the date.
It was today, which meant the bastard had someone following her—just as he’d threatened.
Any hope I had of warning her, or my mam, evaporated like fog under the rising sun.
Panning to view the top of her phone, I saw the time.
The photo had been taken less than thirty minutes ago.
Unknown number: You have one minute to answer me, or I’ll introduce myself to your sweet, innocent sister.
My stomach twisted in dread as I punched out a response.
I delivered it.
I did what you asked.
Please. Leave her alone.
My anxious fingers tapped out a rhythm on the back of my phone, waiting for the bubbles at the bottom to indicate he was typing a reply. It felt like hours before another message popped up.
Unknown number: You have twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours … To do what ?
I was about to send a text asking exactly that, when somebody touched me on the arm. My head jerked up to find a woman staring at me.
“I think you’re being called,” she said, motioning with her chin to the counter.
Blinking, I turned my attention in that direction to find the barista pointing at a takeaway cup on the counter, and a small brown paper bag sitting beside it.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my hoodie, I stepped up to grab my order.
My spine went rigid when I felt the device vibrate once more.
I hustled from the coffee shop and sucked in a bracing breath to help combat the panic.
I forced myself to focus on five things I could see: bus driving past, parked car, mother with a pram, man walking a dog, an overflowing dustbin.
Four things I could touch: the cement path beneath my feet, the way the wind brushed against the hem of my dress, the softness of my hoodie against my arms, the bag across my chest. Three things I could hear: people talking, music from a passing car, church bells.
Two things I could smell: coffee and bus exhaust. One thing I could taste: toothpaste.
Once I felt more grounded, I realized the world still moved around me—people, cars, buses—yet it felt as if the world had stopped.
The message was there. And wishing it wasn’t didn’t change a goddamned thing.
Digging it out of my pocket, I unlocked the screen and saw it was a message from another unknown number.
Unknown number: You can’t escape me, Jynx
Keir.
Fuck.
How the fuck did Keir get my actual number ? He only had my burner number before. My skin prickled with awareness as I glanced around, sensing he could be close. If he was, that would be disastrous.
I’d thought about running after I’d dropped the bullet into the cup holder of the Rover, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
I had my nursing course, which I was only a year away from finishing, and I wasn’t willing to risk everything I’d worked toward.
Doing what Grady wanted shouldn’t have exploded my life.
I’d held up my end of the bargain. Was it too much to want to be left alone after being blackmailed into delivering a warning?
Knowing Keir had eyes on me only made my blood heat a notch.
My phone vibrated again.
Unknown number: Run, because if I catch you, you’re mine
“ Jesus fecking Christ .” My words were a harsh whisper.
What the hell had I gotten myself into? Keir was like the fucking Terminator hunting me down.
Hastily looking around, I dumped my coffee and muffin into the nearest dustbin and ran toward the center of campus, my messenger bag banging against my hip as my feet hit the sidewalk.
The faces I passed blurred, as my mind focused on getting to the safety of the buildings, although even that hadn’t stopped Grady from terrorizing me.
Once my foot hit the giant stone steps at the front of the library, I forced myself to slow and not draw unnecessary attention to myself.
I immediately darted to the right, seeking the stairs to the upper levels.
It was perfect, nobody ever went up there.
Climbing the treads—my lungs burning with the effort—I promised myself I’d do more cardio if I got out of this alive.
After three flights, I step cautiously onto the quiet floor, which held stacks of periodicals on everything from the basics of palliative care to the best practices for infection control in NICU.
I hurried over the carpet, my footsteps muffled as I moved between the rows, trying to find cover near the end.
The sound of footsteps slapping on the stone floor of the stairs echoed in time with my racing pulse.
In the pocket of my hoodie, my phone buzzed.
I tried to quiet my rushed breathing, as my anxiety caused bile to burn the back of my throat. Then I put my big girl panties on and pulled out my phone.
Unknown number: Books can’t save you. Not when I’m on your tail.