Chapter 31 Cloe
CLOE
The knock didn’t come like a threat.
It came like breath. Like punctuation.
Soft.
Measured.
Wrong.
I was still crouched in front of the vent, knees aching from the cold floor, breath caught behind my ribs like it was trying to hide.
My fingers were tight around the flash drive and the journal.
The photo folded and crumpled in my coat pocket.
I hadn’t looked at it yet. I didn’t want to. The weight of the drive was enough.
I slid the journal back into the vent, the metal covering left askew.
The knock came again.
Not louder.
Not urgent.
Just there.
Three taps.
Then silence.
Wolfe doesn’t knock.
That was the first thought.
The first fracture.
I turned toward the door slowly, every part of me screaming to move faster. But I didn’t. Something about the stillness on the other side told me everything I needed to know.
He wasn’t there.
And whatever was—
It didn’t want me to run. It wanted me to hesitate. My heartbeat thundered. My throat locked. I reached for something—anything.
My fingers found the rusted pipe from the radiator near the wall. I gripped it tight. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. Filthy. Another knock.
I rose slowly. I wanted to scream. Not from fear. From the weight of knowing this was already too late. The doorknob twitched. I froze. No voice. No sound.
Just the subtle squeal of the metal under pressure. The lock clicked. And the door creaked open. Not fast. Not like force. Like invitation.
I didn’t move. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. The pipe shook in my hands. Then he stepped inside. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t masked. And somehow—that made it worse.
His hair was shaved close to the scalp. His face pockmarked. His eyes empty. He looked like someone who’d never been caught. Like someone who never had to run.
He smiled when he saw me. Not wide. Not cruel. Just sure. Like I was already his. I raised the pipe. He tilted his head, as if amused.
“Easy now,” he said, voice low, calm.
I swung. He ducked. Fast. Too fast. His hand caught my wrist. Pain bloomed up my arm as he twisted.
I screamed. “Wolfe!”
He didn’t flinch. He slammed me back into the wall, pipe clattering to the ground. His breath hit my face. Hot. Sour.
I fought.
Kicked. Scratched. Wild.
I caught the side of his face with my nails. Skin tore. He grunted. He pushed his weight against me. Crushing against the wall.
I tried to buck.
Tried to draw breath.
“Wolfe! WOLFE!”
My phone.
I reached down. Drawing it free. Before an elbow to the stomach. Hard enough to tear the wind from my lungs. My phone slipped. Clattering to the floor.
Then his hand went to his pocket. I saw it too late. The cloth. The bottle. The rag. I thrashed harder.
His arm locked around my throat. Not choking—just holding.
“Don’t make this worse than it has to be,” he hissed.
He pressed the rag to my face.
The scent hit instantly.
Sweet.
Rotten.
Wrong.
Chemical.
My lungs locked. I held my breath. But it was too late. The edges of my vision began to ripple. Black pressed in from all sides.
I twisted. “Nooo.”
The word warped and slow. My nails scraped his forearm. Blood.
He growled. Pressed harder. The cloth soaked through my skin. My knees buckled. My grip loosened. The room spun.
I thought of Wolfe. Of his mouth against my ear the night before. Don’t disappear on me. And then I did. The last thing I saw was the ceiling. And the way the light from the hallway never reached me.
Thud.
I came back like something drowning its way to the surface with fists, not hands.
Everything hurt. My head. My throat. My wrists. Every inch of my skin buzzed like I’d been stitched back into a body I didn’t ask to return to.
The dark was pure. Not quiet. Not gentle.
It pressed in from all sides. Trapped heat under my spine, cold sweat down my back. My legs were folded, crushed against each other, my arms bent painfully behind me, wrists lashed tight with something plastic and unyielding.
I shifted. Pain flared.
A scream ripped out of me before I knew I was making it.
But it caught.
“NO!”
My throat burned. My mouth was dry. The chemical taste still sat on my tongue like spoiled sugar. And the car kept moving. Not fast. Not reckless. Just steady. A rhythm built from apathy.
I pressed my shoulder into the trunk lid and pushed. Nothing. The walls stayed silent. I kicked. Twice. Three times. The heel of my boot caught something metal. It rattled. I kicked again. Harder.
The trunk didn’t give. But the men did. Voices. Muffled. Shouted. Angry.
The car swerved. My body rolled. They were yelling at each other now.
“She’s fucking awake.”
“Hold her down next stop.”
“You should’ve dosed her again.”
“I told you to bring a second one.”
Panic bloomed fast and vicious. I curled my legs in, turned sideways, braced myself against the tire well and screamed. Raw. Shaking.
I screamed until my lungs burned. I screamed Wolfe’s name. And the car stopped. Slammed to a halt like it had hit a wall.
Doors opened.
Footsteps.
Then—
The trunk clicked. And I exploded. The lid opened. I came out swinging.
I launched myself like an animal. Caught one of them in the throat with my shoulder. Heard him grunt. Felt the satisfying crack of bone. The other grabbed me by the waist. I thrashed. Elbowed him in the nose. Felt the cartilage snap. Blood sprayed. He cursed.
I screamed again. Louder. Higher. He clamped a hand over my mouth. I bit. Hard.
He screamed.
“Fucking bitch!”
His fist caught my jaw. My head snapped sideways.
Stars exploded behind my eyes.
I staggered, spit blood. Didn’t stop.
I turned, kicked the inside of his knee. He dropped. The other was already coming at me.
I ducked. His fist grazed my shoulder. I ran. Two steps. That was all I got. Then an arm around my throat.
I clawed. Kicked. Tried to twist. He lifted me clean off the ground. My scream was a garbled choke. My nails dug into skin. I caught his face. Ripped something. He slammed me against the car door. My vision blurred. The rag returned. Pressed hard.
I held my breath. Twisted again. Slammed the back of my head into his face. Heard something crack. His grip slipped. I ran again. Made it to the sidewalk. I saw him.
Wolfe.
Just his silhouette. Lit by the streetlamp, coat unfastened, head tilted down as he moved toward the building like nothing had gone wrong. Like I was still inside. Like I hadn’t already been stolen. I opened my mouth and screamed his name.
“WOLFE!”
My voice tore out of me like it was trying to break something. The man holding me tightened his grip.
I twisted.
Kicked.
“WOLFE!”
I screamed it again.
Louder. Ragged. Unhinged.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t hear.
I lunged. My feet scraped the pavement. My body pitched forward. I almost broke free.
Almost. The rag hit again. Cloth soaked through. Jammed against my mouth. Hands on my throat. I thrashed. Slammed my head back. Slammed my foot down.
“WOLFE!”
It was a sob now. A prayer. A scream that ripped from somewhere behind my ribs. He walked through the door.
Gone.
The last thing I felt before everything went dark was the edge of the trunk against my back.
And the sound of my name—not from Wolfe. But from the man who stuffed me inside.
“You’re done running, girl.”
Wolfe
I didn’t hear her. That was the part that burned the deepest.
Not the silence. Not the stillness.
The absence.
I stepped out of the car without thinking. My hand brushed the roof as I shut the door behind me. The engine ticked in the quiet, a lazy heat curling out from under the hood as I crossed the pavement.
The streetlight flickered overhead.
No wind. No warning.
Just that still hum that comes right before something detonates.
I checked my watch. Three minutes. She said one. I told myself it didn't matter. She was just grabbing something. Just picking up a piece of memory. A page from the past we could use to rebuild the future. I told myself she was fine. She had to be. I couldn't take anything else being stolen.
I walked toward the building. Didn’t rush. Didn’t scan the street.
I let my mind drift back to Camille’s journal, to the notes I’d made in the margins, to the way Barron’s jaw had gone tight when he realized the final page wasn’t about inheritance. It was about a contract.
She had signed something. I didn’t know what yet. But I would. Soon.
I reached the door. It stuck slightly when I pulled it open. My fingers tightened around the frame.
Inside, the air was stale. Not unusual. Old buildings always smelled like this. Like concrete and regret.
I took the stairs instead of the elevator.
Habit.
My footsteps echoed. Second floor. The light above the stairwell buzzed.
Her apartment door was ajar. My pulse didn’t spike. Not yet. She was in a hurry. That’s all. She didn’t close it all the way.
I stepped inside. The cold hit me first. Then the silence. It was too still. Like a pause that had waited too long for the next note.
I scanned the room. Slow. Deliberate. Floor vent open. Dust scattered around it. A chair tipped over. That was the first shift. The first crack in my ribs.
She wouldn’t have left that. She was messy, yes. Chaotic, sometimes. But not careless. Not here. Not in this.
I moved farther inside. The mattress was untouched. But something in the air had changed.
I bent down, picked up the chair. And saw the wrench beneath it. Blood on the handle. Not a lot. Just enough. My lungs turned to ice.
I stood. Fast.
Checked the bathroom. Empty.
The closet. Empty.
Her scent still lingered in the air. Faint. Cedar. Smoke. Fear.
I pulled out my phone.
No messages.
No calls.
My fingers flew.
Texted her.
Where are you?
Delivered.
No read.
I turned—
But something pulled me back.
A shape on the floor.
Still. Off.
Faint glow from the corner near the mattress.
Her phone. Facedown. Left behind.
I crossed the room. Heart tight. Every step slower than the last.
Crouched low, knees biting against the cold floorboards. Flipped the phone over. Screen lit. My message waiting.
No reply.
Not read.
And then—
I saw it.
Not the phone.
Not the message.
The vent.
Metal cover askew. Like it had been closed in a rush. Or by someone who didn’t have time to finish hiding what mattered.
I reached forward. Fingers steady. Pulled the grate aside.
Camille’s journal.
Tucked deep.
Edges worn. Familiar.
I didn’t move for a second. Just stared.
The last time she touched this, she was still mine. And now? Now it was buried like evidence. Hidden like it was meant to be found too late.
I slid it out. Stood fast. Journal and drive in one hand.
Phone in my other. No hesitation. Just motion.
I was down the stairs in seconds. She never would've left this unless she meant to come back.
Unless something stopped her. And I was going to find out what.
And make sure it never fucking touched her again.
Boots like thunder against the thin carpet.
Out into the street. There was only silence. The kind that was crushing. I turned in a slow circle. Too slow.
My hand shook when I pulled the phone again. I hit redial. Once. Twice. On the third, it rang.
An unknown number.
I answered. Didn’t speak. The line hissed.
Then a voice. Low. Tired. Pleased.
“Now it’s your turn to crawl.”
Click.
Silence.
I didn’t drop the phone.
I didn’t shout.
I just stood there, alone in the street, breathing in the last place she had been. And realized I had never known true stillness until I couldn’t hear her breathing anymore.
And the silence didn’t sound like absence. It sounded like worship torn from my chest. Like the echo of a prayer I never deserved to have answered. And I would kill them all for taking it.