The Lies of Temptation (Without Limits #4)

Prologue

ELLIOT

The bell above the door chimed just as I slid the receipt into the till.

The poetry guy—a tall shadow of a man in a tan coat—nodded politely before disappearing into the gray murk of the afternoon, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

I watched the door swing shut behind him, the glass rattling faintly in its frame, and felt suddenly suffocated by the silence he left behind.

“That’s the last one for the morning,” I called, tugging down my sleeves, stuffing my shaking hands into the hoodie I wore like armor. “Just going to head off for lunch.”

From halfway up the stepladder in the mystery section, Madeline glanced over her glasses like a hawk in a cardigan. “Lunch time already? Time flies.”

“Yeah. Just… need to clear my head before it eats itself.” I tapped my temple and headed back toward the breakroom, trying not to let her see how badly I was shaking.

“Take your time,” she said. “It’s dead out here, anyway.”

The breakroom was a cluttered mess. A tight, airless space.

It felt like the walls crept closer with every breath I took.

Precariously stacked boxes of unpacked books lined the walls.

Old invoices were piled across the small table in soft, collapsing stacks.

Mugs with rings of dried tea scum crowded the sink.

The fridge in the corner hummed too loud, a tired, mechanical wheeze that made my teeth itch.

I sank into the squeaky folding chair that occupied the only clear patch of floor and unwrapped my sandwich with fingers I pretended weren’t trembling.

I chewed without tasting its cardboard texture and unfolded an old invoice.

Absent-mindedly I started sketching in the margins. Wings. It was always wings.

Something that could leave. Something that didn’t have to stay trapped inside this small, breathing room full of quiet expectations and unfinished things. Something free of the chains my mind wrapped around me.

The TV above the microwave buzzed with static, tuned to some mindless midday show. It was just background noise…Until it wasn’t.

The screen flickered and the show cut out mid-sentence, replaced by a red banner and a voice too serious to belong in the middle of the day.

“…live coverage from Whispering Cove, where police are currently responding to an armed robbery in progress…”

My pencil froze mid-feather. A single line that bled and fractured into the paper like a vein. Whispering Cove. A cold thread slid down my spine, and it had nothing to do with the rain tapping the window.

I lifted my eyes slowly, like I already knew I shouldn’t look but couldn’t stop myself. My stomach dropped before my heart caught up. Some part of me already understood this would be bad.

The camera shook. Tilted as the image flickered in and out until it focused in on a familiar building. Pale stone facade. Black-and-gold lettering. Every detail burned into me.

Community Trust Bank.

The bank Mom had worked at for over twenty years. Where she’d gone just before I left for work that morning.

“…multiple hostages still inside…”

“No.” The word hit me like a blow to the ribs.

I stood so fast the chair screamed across the floor. My sandwich slipped from my hand and landed somewhere near my feet, forgotten. I didn’t even notice. I was already moving closer to the screen, like proximity could undo what I was seeing.

“…the names of three known hostages—”

The building blurred. Photos replaced it. The third image stole the air from my lungs.

Mom.

Her warm smile. Her calm, beautiful hazel eyes. That stupid bun she wore when she needed to be “taken seriously.” Her lanyard against her pale blue blouse, the top buttons undone, and the black jacket that made up her uniform framing her shoulders.

It could have been anyone. But it wasn’t. It was my mom. My throat locked. The room tilted, and the pencil I’d still clutched in my other hand snapped between my fingers before clattering to the floor, loud in the sudden quiet that crashed down on me like snow.

The sound of gunfire cracked. It punched through the feed and straight into my chest. I tasted bile as it seared a burning path up my throat. My stomach rolled violently, almost knocking me off my feet.

Screams followed—haunted and terrified—and the camera lurched like the person holding it was running. Smoke filled the frame. Someone shouted orders. The reporter’s breathing went ragged and too loud, scraping against my nerves.

People ducked and ran for cover as the camera panned down the street. Armed officers surged forward just as a deafening boom drowned out everything. Even the erratic thumping of my heart.

Then static. White noise flooded the screen, a shrill electric hiss that made the hair on my arms stand up. And then my vision went black. It was like something fundamental had vanished. One moment there was a world. Then there wasn’t.

“No…” The sound came apart as it left my mouth. My heart was a drumbeat in my ears, too fast, too loud, drowning everything else.

I fumbled for my phone. It slipped through my fingers, slick with sweat. I caught it on the second try and stabbed at the screen until her name filled it. And hit call.

Seconds stretched while I waited for the call to connect.

My mouth tasted like metal.

“You have reached my voicemail. You know what to do.”

I exhaled through clenched teeth and tried again. Only to be met with the same fate. Her voicemail clicked in quicker this time. But I didn’t give up and tried again.

Voicemail.

And again.

Voicemail.

“M-Mom—hey, it’s me. I saw the news. Please, please pick up. Just… call me back. Let me know you’re okay.”

My voice broke into pieces, but I didn’t care.

Without regard for the repercussions or what Madeline would think of me, I bolted for the back door.

Cold rain slammed into me like thrown gravel, but I barely felt it.

My hands frantically fought the inside of my pocket for my keys.

My fingers didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore.

I got into the truck like my body was moving ahead of my mind. Like some kind of out-of-body experience. The engine roared, and the heaters blew cold air. I barely noticed it. My mind singularly focused on hearing Mom’s voice.

Once my phone connected to the bluetooth, I hit redial. Praying this time would be different.

“You have reached—”

“Please,” I whispered after the beep, tears blurring the world. “Please, just be somewhere else. Please be safe.”

I stared at the screen, willing it to light up. To flash with her name. To undo every worst case scenario that was running through my mind. But nothing happened. I swallowed down another wave of bile and tried Dad. If anyone would know, he would. She was his entire world.

It rang once.

Then voicemail.

“Fuck.”

My hand smashed down on the steering wheel.

Pain shot up my arm—sharp, bright—and vanished under the roar in my chest. My foot slammed the gas and the truck lurched forward, tires screaming against slick asphalt as the wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour.

Every second felt like a scream in my ribs.

Every raindrop sounded like gunfire echoing in my skull.

My throat was closing up. My skin felt too tight, like it didn’t fit anymore, like I was going to split open along invisible seams. The roads blurred and merged into one. I didn’t remember the turns. Didn’t remember stopping at lights. Didn’t remember driving at all.

I only remembered leaving work.

And then I was pulling up at the house.

Dad burst out the front door like a man already halfway to hell. No jacket. Top button ripped open. His tie hanging loosely around his shoulders. His white shirt was the same pale color as his skin where it clung to him, soaked through with rain and sweat.

His gray eyes were red and wild, and unfocused. He looked straight through me when his head turned in my direction. Didn’t even register my truck when I banked the curb onto the grass.

He just stormed toward his car with singular focus. I threw open my door and slid on wet pavement as I ran.

“Dad—”

“Get in!” he barked. The sound of his voice—sharp and cold and wrong—made my heart stutter.

I rounded the car and climbed in, chest heaving. “Is she—? Do we know—?”

“Get in the car, Elliot!” he snapped. The crack in his voice. That tiny fracture beneath the anger was when I knew.

Something inside him had already broken.

He slammed the car into drive before I’d even shut my door. We tore down the street. Rain streaked across the windshield in long, distorted lines.

I swallowed hard. “Dad… please. Tell me what’s going on.”

His jaw worked like he was chewing through glass. “She’s at County General,” he said. “She’s been shot.”

The words hollowed me out. There was no air left in the car. No air left in me. “It’s… bad?” My throat closed around a sob I didn’t let escape. Not yet. “Did she answer her phone?” I croaked.

He shook his head once.

“She said she wanted cherry pie,” he whispered, staring straight ahead when I glanced over at him. “This morning. Said she wanted to go to the beach and watch the sunset. Like it was just another day.” His voice folded in on itself. “We were supposed to have a date night when she came home.”

I bit down on my knuckle until I tasted copper. Inside, I was already coming apart.

Already drowning.

Already lost.

It felt like hours before County General rose out of the rain like a wound in the world—bright, sterile, and violently out of place. Dad cut across two parking spots and skidded to a stop. He was out of the car before the engine finished dying; the door swinging open behind him like a torn wing.

I scrambled after him. Every step was too loud. Too real. The automatic doors hissed open. Fluorescent lights sliced into my eyes. The smell of antiseptic hit me like a wall: cold, chemical and unforgiving.

A nurse appeared with a clipboard in her hands, sorrow already in her face.