Chapter Four - Emery
My phone vibrates just after dawn, the sound jarring in the hush of my bedroom. For a second, I think it’s Clara—maybe she forgot her keys again—but it’s an unfamiliar number. I stare at the screen, heart pounding. The message is short, formal, impossible to ignore:
My chest tightens. I reread the message three times.
Maybe it’s a scam, I try to reason, but my gut tells me it’s real. The dread that’s been riding me since that night in the garage digs in deeper. My hands shake as I set the phone down.
For a minute, I just sit there, covers pulled to my chin, feeling smaller than I have in years.
My mind spirals with excuses—I could delete the message, pretend I never saw it. I could call in sick and spend the day hiding under the covers, letting the world move without me.
I know it wouldn’t matter. If the FBI wants to talk to me, they’ll find a way. Running would only make me look guilty. I exhale, pushing my hair from my face. Avoiding it forever is worse than just getting it over with.
Clara’s already left for work, so I shower in silence, pulling on my safest work clothes—a gray blouse, plain black skirt, shoes that won’t make me trip if I have to run.
I try to eat, but nothing stays down. I triple-check the address, then leave the apartment early, my coat pulled tight, blending in with the city’s weekday rhythm.
Midtown is busy as always, too many people, not enough space. Café East is tucked between a dry cleaner and a shoe repair shop, nearly invisible except for the handwritten chalkboard in the window.
I stand outside for a minute, pretending to check my phone, scanning every face that passes. I don’t recognize anyone, but the unease won’t let me go. My palms are damp. I wipe them on my coat.
Inside, the café is half empty. Quiet jazz plays overhead, competing with the soft hiss of the espresso machine. Most of the tables are empty, a few scattered with laptops and open books.
Near the window, a man sits alone, his back to the street, hat pulled low enough to shade his eyes.
My heart jumps. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but he fits the description in my head: government-issue calm, the posture of someone trained to notice details.
I force my feet to move, sliding into the chair across from him. My knees bump the underside of the table. I clasp my hands together, trying not to look as nervous as I feel.
“Ms. Johnson?” His voice is soft, low, careful.
I nod. “That’s me.”
He doesn’t introduce himself, just gestures to the barista. “Would you like anything?”
I shake my head. My stomach is too tight for coffee.
He pulls out a slim notepad, flipping it open. “Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Johnson. I’ll keep this brief.” He keeps his tone gentle, almost casual, but every word feels measured. “We’re trying to establish the timeline for the night Franklin Lutz was last seen. You were working late?”
“Yes,” I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I intend. “Audit deadlines.”
“Did you see anything unusual as you left?”
My fingers twist in my lap. “I… I don’t know. It was late. I was tired.” A lie, but not enough to matter. I glance at his face—still in shadow, mouth set in a neutral line.
“Did you see Mr. Lutz at any point?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so. I already told the police everything I know.”
He writes something down, not looking at me. “Anyone else in the halls or elevator?”
The memory flares: the man with blood on his sleeve, the sharp warning in his voice, the weight of being seen.
How much can I say without putting myself in danger? A man like that wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me, If he knew I’d said a word. I think of my roommates, of my parents… would he hurt them too?
I hesitate too long. He notices.
“Ms. Johnson.” His tone softens, but the pressure increases. “It’s important you tell me everything. You could be in danger if someone knows you saw something.”
I swallow, mouth dry. Is there any point in continuing to lie?
“There was… a man. In the garage. Tall, blond, suit. I think he saw me.”
His pen freezes. “Do you know who he was?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I do. I’ve known since I saw his photo, since I replayed the scene in my head a thousand times. Saying it out loud feels like crossing a line I can’t come back from.
The agent waits. Silence thickens between us, stretching and stretching until I can’t stand it.
I lean in, my voice barely above a whisper. “Damien Rudenko… he killed that man.”
The words fall out of me. My throat burns with fear, with guilt, with the certainty that I’ve just done something irreversible. The agent’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen, focused entirely on me. He writes something down, slower this time.
“Are you certain?” His voice is so soft I almost miss it.
I nod, because the truth is too heavy to deny. “I saw him in the garage. He… he saw me too. He told me to stay silent.”
The fear I’ve been holding in bursts loose. I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to keep breathing. I’m not sure if I feel better, or worse, for saying it out loud. The agent tucks his notepad away, hat still shadowing his face.
The agent’s hand lingers on his notepad a moment longer than it should. He doesn’t say goodbye—just lifts his hat, and for a split second I see eyes as cold and sharp as broken glass. My stomach drops.
He smiles, slow and knowing, and every cell in my body screams that something is very wrong.
“Emery.” My name on his lips is a secret, dangerous thing. His voice is quieter, deeper—familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I told you to stay silent.”
The blood drains from my face. I blink, sure I must be seeing things, but it’s him. Damien Rudenko. Close enough that I can see the faint scar along his jaw, the steady pulse at his throat. The man who saw me. The man I just accused of murder.
Time fractures. I feel my pulse thundering in my ears, and all I can think is run .
I stand so fast I nearly send my chair crashing backward. The coffee on the table trembles, the cup rattling against the saucer.
My legs barely work, but adrenaline does what willpower can’t. I bolt for the door, desperate to blend into the swirl of people outside, desperate for air.
Damien doesn’t move to stop me, not physically, but his presence fills the space behind me, crowding out every rational thought.
I shove past a woman with a stroller, murmur a shaky apology, and fumble with the door until I’m out on the street, blinking in the harsh, wintry sunlight.
I don’t look back. My feet carry me on instinct: sidewalk, crosswalk, a wall of faces and city noise. My breath is ragged, shallow, as I press through the crowd, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. Did anyone else see what just happened? Is he following me?
I’m almost at the corner when I realize how wrong everything feels. There’s too much space on the curb, too many suits idling near parked cars. Something shifts in the air—a thick, sudden hush beneath the usual city noise. My panic spikes.
A black SUV glides up to the curb, the back window tinted so dark I can’t see inside.
I veer away, but two men step forward—big, silent, dressed in black from boots to gloves.
Their faces are hidden behind balaclavas, features wiped clean by anonymity.
I try to dodge between them, but they close ranks with terrifying efficiency.
A hand clamps around my upper arm, hard and inescapable.
“Let go!” My protest is barely more than a gasp, cut off by the sound of another vehicle idling close. I twist, but the world narrows, shrinking down to the heat of their grip, the sharp scent of leather and winter air.
“Don’t fight,” one of them says. His voice is low, accented. Russian, maybe. My mind spins. I want to scream, but the city is indifferent. A hundred strangers see nothing, do nothing, keep walking.
A sleek black car, impossibly clean, noses up beside me.
The door swings open before I can react.
I barely register the movement as they guide—no, shove—me inside.
The interior is all black leather and cold chrome.
I land hard on the seat, breathless, heart hammering against my ribs.
The door closes. The outside world vanishes.
Silence. The car is moving before I can find my voice. I reach for the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Locked in. My phone—my bag—I fumble for them, but a hand from the front seat gestures sharply: Don’t . The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, expression unreadable.
It takes less than ten minutes to realize we’re heading uptown, the traffic thinning, the city’s rhythm shifting as glass towers give way to luxury high-rises. Every second crawls by in a blur of panic and disbelief.
What does he want? What will he do to me? I squeeze my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. My mind races with every warning I’ve ever ignored, every moment I should have stayed quiet.
Beneath the terror, there’s something else—an electric, sick curiosity, the same feeling that kept me from running that night in the garage.
When the car finally stops, I’m hauled out into a private garage—concrete, silent, the kind of place where secrets live and die.
The elevator is already waiting, all mirror and gold trim.
One man stands behind me, another at my side, guiding me forward as if I might collapse or bolt. There’s no chance for either.
We ride in silence to the penthouse. The doors slide open to a world of glass and light. The space is cavernous, walls that seem to float, everything polished and expensive. It’s beautiful in the way a wolf’s mouth is beautiful. Deadly, immaculate.
Damien is waiting, standing by the window, his back to the room. He must have traveled in a different car.
The city sprawls beneath him, glittering and unreachable. When he turns, the room seems to shrink. He’s not smiling now. His eyes are the same arctic blue as before, cold and impossibly bright, fixing on me with the intensity of a storm about to break.
I can’t look away. Fear twists inside me, sharp and hot, but there’s something tangled in it—something I can’t name or fight. His presence fills the room. Every instinct tells me to run, but my feet stay planted. My lungs burn. My hands shake.
He walks toward me, each step slow and deliberate, as if he’s giving me time to process what’s already decided. I want to speak, to demand answers, but my mouth is dry.
He stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sit,” he says softly, pointing to a couch that looks more like a throne than furniture.
My knees wobble, but I obey. I lower myself onto the velvet, forcing my breaths to steady, trying to make sense of anything except the heat in my chest.
He sits across from me, forearms braced on his knees, all coiled power and unreadable calculation.
A thousand questions crash through my mind, but all I can do is stare at my trembling hands and wonder if this is how it feels to be prey.
Damien doesn’t speak at first. He studies me, head tilted, eyes cool and precise.
My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it, but I refuse to look away.
The city glimmers behind him, impossibly far from this quiet, golden prison.
His gaze lingers on my face, then drifts down to my clenched fists.
When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is gentle, almost intimate. “You’re here now, Emery. There’s no going back.”
I swallow hard, the truth of it settling over me like a weight. I can’t tell if it’s fear, or something darker, that answers him.