Chapter 19
NINETEEN
RIVER
I find it by accident.
I’m digging through my desk drawer for a spare charger when my fingers hit something solid and metallic, wedged beneath a stack of sticky notes and half-dead pens.
A USB drive.
Black. Scuffed. Labeled in white marker: Psalm88.
My breath catches.
I haven’t seen this thing in months. Not since I moved desks, not since before… all of this.
For a second, I just stare at it, every instinct screaming don’t touch that.
Then the other part of me—the one that’s been living off adrenaline and curiosity for weeks—whispers, What if it’s a clue?
Psalm88.
The same tag from the Cathedral files. The one Mask traced.
The one linked to Mason.
My heart lurches into a nervous gallop.
I glance around the office. Everyone’s heads are down, buried in code or coffee or both. No one’s watching me. Not even Gage.
I slide the USB into my laptop.
The screen flickers once. Then again.
The file directory loads—one folder. No name, just a symbol. A tear drop.
When I click it open, there’s a dozen audio files.
Each one labeled with a date.
The first one: Therapy_09_12.mp3.
No.
I freeze, my stomach bottoming out.
No, no, no, no, no—
I double-click it anyway, because apparently I like pain.
My own voice fills my headphones.
“I don’t think I’m broken, but I feel like I should be. Sometimes I wish I was. It’d be easier to explain why I can’t sleep. Why every noise sounds like a warning.”
The air leaves my lungs.
It’s me. My voice. My real voice. My words. The ones I told Dr. Lin in confidence. Sessions that were encrypted, password-protected, backed up only on my personal drive—never shared.
How did they get these?
I click another file.
“I know it’s stupid, but sometimes I think the trolls are right. Maybe I am too much. Too loud. Too visible.”
The screen swims.
It’s all there. My doubts, my private thoughts, my rawest confessions.
The recordings I made for healing. The things I said when I thought I was safe.
And now they’re on a USB labeled with the same tag as the stalker forum.
I rip the drive out so fast the port sparks. My pulse is hammering.
My hands shake as I jam it into my pocket. I’m halfway out of my chair before I realize Gage is standing in the doorway.
He looks concerned. “River? You okay?”
I shake my head. “No. I—” My voice cracks. “Someone planted something in my drawer.”
He frowns, immediately stepping closer. “What do you mean planted?”
I swallow. My throat is raw. “A USB. With… recordings.”
“Recordings of what?”
“Of me.”
The color drains from his face. “What kind of recordings?”
I whisper it, because I can’t say it any louder. “Therapy sessions.”
Something in him snaps. His eyes darken, jaw flexing tight enough to crack.
For the first time since I’ve known him, he doesn’t look calm. He looks dangerous.
“Who has access to your desk?” he asks, voice low and sharp.
“I—I don’t know. Cleaning staff, probably. You. Maybe Tasha, if she borrowed something—”
He cuts me off. “River, nobody borrows a USB and hides it in your drawer.”
I flinch. “I didn’t say she did.”
He curses under his breath and starts pacing, hand in his hair. I’ve never seen him lose composure like this.
“Okay,” he says finally, trying to reel himself in. “You didn’t plug it in, did you?”
“Gage…”
His head snaps up. “You did.”
I nod helplessly. “It looked like a normal drive!”
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “You could’ve triggered a beacon, River. Whoever planted that knows you found it now.”
The room feels smaller. My chest feels tighter.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
He exhales hard and then… softens. He steps closer. Not angry anymore—just there.
“I know,” he murmurs. “We’ll fix it. You’re not alone, okay?”
The words sink into me like sunlight through fog. Like I've heard them before but from a different voice. A modulated one.
I push away… and stare at him.
He makes a quick call—quiet, clipped, technical words I don’t understand. His voice is steady again, but his hand is trembling around his phone. When he hangs up, he looks at me like he’s about to ask something he knows I’ll hate.
“I need to take it,” he says, nodding toward my pocket.
I hesitate. “Why?”
“So I can find out who touched it before you did.”
He holds out his hand. I hand it over. His fingers brush mine, lingering just long enough to send a confusing flutter through my chest.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “I promise I’ll keep it safe.”
I nod, unable to speak.
He pockets it and adds, “Let’s get out of here.”
I send a quick text to Mask telling him everything, and he sends back a simple, “working on it.”
We end up at a park, same as yesterday. Except this time, there’s no laughter. No coffee. Just silence and a gentle wind that smells like rain.
I sit on the bench and stare at the lake. My reflection looks like someone else’s face. Someone tired. Someone lost.
“How bad is it?” I finally ask.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “Bad. Whoever did this wanted you to find it. Psalm88 isn’t just a tag—it’s a signature. A taunt.”
“From Mason?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “We don’t know that yet.”
“But you think it’s someone at NovaPlay.”
“I think it’s someone who knows you. Someone with access.”
I press my palms against my knees, trying to stop them from shaking. “It’s like they’re in my head, Gage.”
He looks at me, eyes softening. “No. They’re in your network. That’s different.”
I huff a shaky laugh. “You sound like my therapist.”
“I sound like a guy who doesn’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Something breaks in me at that. I look at him, really look at him—his messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the tension carved deep into his shoulders.
And I know. I know he’s Mask, but I’m not sure what to do with the information just yet.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For today. For…everything.”
He gives me a small smile. “You don’t have to thank me, Quinn.”
But I do. Because no one else is showing up like he does. No one else has helped me like he has.
My mind reels about the way Gage has touched me. Kissed me. Mask… Gage. It’s all so confusing in my head.
It’s him. I know it is, and suddenly I feel shy. So, very, very shy. Why Gage? Why now? I always thought he hated me.
I hesitate, then ask, “Will you just hold me?” It’s a big ask, and I half-expect him to laugh off my request. He doesn’t know that I know.
Instead, he holds out his arm and I scoot closer. He wraps me into his chest, and I hear his heartbeat—Mask’s heartbeat—thumping against my ear. It steadies me. Like a war drum beating out in tempo with mine.
I want to tell him I know. I want to say something, but I can’t. Instead, I rest my head against his chest, and let his arm wrap around my shoulders, and think about the way he touched me last night.
I don’t want to ruin his plan by voicing that I know he’s Mask. But, I do know.