Chapter Four
Lauren
Hannah’s weight sags against my chest as I fumble with the apartment door, her breath warm and steady against my collarbone.
Out cold. The dolls and Sophia’s attention must have worn her out completely.
When did it get so late?
My bag hits the kitchen table with a soft thud. I shift Hannah higher on my hip, ready to carry her to bed, when something stops me.
The silence.
Our apartment is always quiet—seventeen floors up means the street noise rarely reaches us. But this is different. Heavier. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
I freeze, listening.
Nothing.
Cold spreads through my chest, the kind that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with instinct. My skin prickles. The hairs on my arms stand up.
Something is wrong.
The apartment feels occupied in a way it shouldn't. Not by Nikolai's ghost—I've learned to live with that particular haunting, welcomed it even on the worst nights. This is different. This feels present. Alive.
I pull Hannah tighter against me, forcing my breathing to stay even for her sake.
But inside, my thoughts fracture into a thousand directions at once.
The SUV. Timur's abrupt exit. The hooded figure. What if I’ve been right to be paranoid?
What if four years of fragile peace is all we were ever going to get?
What if Aslanov has finally come for us?
Stop it, Lauren.
Breathe.
I make myself move, scanning the room as I circle toward Hannah’s bedroom. That’s when I notice it.
The laundry room door stands ajar.
I always keep it closed. Always. Ever since Hannah was two and nearly poisoned herself trying to open a bottle of detergent, that door stays shut.
My pulse hammers against my throat. I take one step closer, then another, angling to see inside without getting too close.
Nothing visible. No broken windows. The front door was locked when we arrived. The security system isn’t shrieking its alarm.
Everything looks normal.
But it doesn’t feel normal.
Sweat slides down my spine despite the chill racing through me. Hannah’s warm weight in my arms is both comfort and liability—I can’t take risks, can’t charge ahead like the reckless girl I used to be. I have to be smart. Rational.
I back away from the laundry room, fishing my phone from my pocket with trembling fingers.
Call the police. That’s what normal people do.
I pull up the keypad and tap the first digit.
9.
That’s as far as I get.
A shadow explodes from the laundry room.
Hannah’s scream pierces the air as she jolts awake in my arms. I spin instinctively, trying to shield her with my body, but he’s already on us.
The impact slams me backward. My heels scramble for purchase against the hardwood but it’s useless—he’s too strong, too fast. We’re going down.
I hit the couch hard, Hannah’s weight nearly tearing from my grip. My fingers claw at her clothes, her skin, anything to keep her close. “Mommy!” she shrieks, and the sound breaks something inside me.
Before I can pull her back to my chest, the couch lurches. He’s dragging it toward him.
No!
Not her.
Not Hannah!
He’s dressed in all black, face hidden behind a balaclava. Our eyes meet for a split second—cold, emotionless—before he looks away, focused on his task.
The couch tips. We spill to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Hannah is crying, my shoulder screams where it connected with the ground, but I barely feel it. I’m already moving, already grabbing her, hauling her back against my hip.
The furniture crashes away from him instead of toward. A few seconds. That’s all I have.
The phone!
I need my phone. Need to call for help. Need to—
Hannah’s sobs cut through my panic. Her small hands fist in my shirt, her whole body trembling against mine.
Think, Lauren.
Think!
The glass vase on the console table catches my eye. It’s heavy, substantial. My only option.
I lunge for it, dumping the flowers, water sloshing across the floor. The weight immediately strains my wrist but I don’t care. I just need to buy time. Time to get Hannah somewhere safe. Time to call the police.
This can’t be happening. Four years of running, hiding, building a life—and it’s all crashing down in the middle of my living room.
He’s coming at us again.
I don’t think. I swing.
The vase connects with the attacker’s face in an explosion of frosted glass. He roars, stumbling back. Blood seeps through the fabric of his mask.
Hannah screams against my chest.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” The lie tastes bitter. Nothing about this is okay.
He’s recovering too fast, shaking off the blow like it was nothing. I need my phone! Where did it fall?
There—across the room, screen glowing against the dark floor.
No time. He’s already moving again.
I shift Hannah higher, curling my body around hers as I run. One hand cups her head, protecting it. The other stretches toward the phone.
Almost there. Almost—
His hand locks around my arm like a vise.
Shit!
Terror floods my system. This is it. This is how it ends.
He drags me backward, his other arm wrapping around my waist. Hannah’s muffled cries vibrate through my chest. I press her face against me, one hand stroking her hair even as my own heart threatens to shatter.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper. Another lie. The biggest one yet.
We’re seventeen floors up. Alone. No one knows we’re in danger. No one’s coming to save us.
Four years.
That’s all we got. Four years of bedtime stories and preschool pickups and Sunday morning pancakes. It wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.
I’m sorry, Hannah.
I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.
The room tilts as he pulls me further into his grip. My daughter’s life is slipping through my fingers and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
This is my fault. All of it. If I’d never gotten involved with Nikolai, never stumbled into that world—
Hannah wouldn’t even exist.
The thought cuts deeper than any blade.
A tear escapes, hot against my cheek. My little girl. My whole world.
And I’ve failed her.