Chapter 39 Iris
IRIS
I move fast through Storm King Art Center, weaving between hulking steel arcs and sun-bleached concrete forms planted in the grass.
I choose the narrow switchbacks instead of the wide gravel paths meant for strolling, and stone steps instead of open slopes.
I duck behind a stand of trees, double back once, then stop until I’m sure he’s lost me.
So Marcus really did put eyes on me.
That realization sends a rush straight through my veins. Being protected is one thing. Being trusted enough to escape on purpose is another. I flex my toes inside my sneakers, already aware how badly this would’ve ended, had I worn Rossi heels.
I let myself enjoy it for a moment, the satisfaction of shaking my tail without anyone getting hurt or reprimanded. I almost feel bad for the guy tailing me. I must be a nightmare to protect. Hopefully, he doesn’t get chewed out for this.
Then again, his boss wanted me to escape, so that should absolve him of everything.
I head back toward the road, the rush still in me but no longer spilling over. I picture Marcus finding out later and rubbing his temples, his patience gone, yet still annoyingly attractive while dealing with me.
At the end of the day, this is the game. I’m ahead. And I’m ready to collect.
Marcus didn’t pick Storm King by accident.
There are pockets here where art interrupts sightlines, where massive steel curves and concrete slabs create their own kind of privacy.
A finale could unfold there easily. The idea catches hold and doesn’t let go.
Whatever he has planned, I’ll make sure it ends with my thighs around his ears.
A car idles ahead, a black Jeep that looks too pristine to have seen real dirt. The driver’s window lowers as I approach.
No mask. Not even sunglasses. Just a familiar face in daylight. Maybe a little pissed that I showed up this fast.
I walk up casually. “That was too easy,” I say, enjoying the dig.
This version of the game suits me, now that I know who’s under the mask. It doesn’t need darkness to be dangerous. No alleys, and no doors you don’t remember opening. Just a daytime play, out in the open.
“Do I get to ride shotgun?”
He doesn’t answer. In reply, he just unlocks the door.
I get in and twist toward him. The posture is right. So is the bone structure and the tilt of his head. The face is perfect, but the presence is off.
Then he smiles.
It’s Marcus’s smile, but with different eyes. Dead eyes.
The lock snaps down immediately.
No. No. No!
My hand shoots to my pocket.
It’s empty.
Panic blooms fast. My phone’s still in my car. I left it behind because I never needed it in a game.
The smile on his face widens. “What should I call you now?” he murmurs. “Midday?”
I lunge for the handle, but his hand moves faster. With a jerk forward, my forehead slams into the dashboard. Pain explodes behind my skull, white-hot and shattering.
I slump, dazed, but through the ringing in my ears, I register motion. The vehicle lurches into drive. My brain stutters, skips, and repeats. Like a record warping under heat. Everything goes sideways.
Darkness isn’t velvet this time.
It’s real.
And I’m standing in it with my eyes open.