Chapter Nineteen
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Lily kept pace beside Griff, both of them moving fast but staying alert. The icy wind bit at her face, but she barely felt it. Her focus was locked on the storefront just ahead—Stitched in Time—with its dusty pink awning and faded mannequins gazing blankly from behind the glass.
No lights. No movement. No people.
But that wouldn’t last.
The wail of sirens drifted closer, echoing off the buildings like a warning bell. Ambulance. Fire truck. Maybe more. Soon, neighbors would poke their heads outside, stepping onto porches or leaning from the doors of the businesses that were still open, trying to figure out what was happening.
Lily just hoped whoever had Caleb wouldn’t panic when they heard those sounds.
She adjusted the grip on her weapon as they neared the door. Her pulse thudded, matching the rhythm of her boots on the sidewalk. She didn’t speak. Neither did Griff. There was no need. They were on the same page, both of them praying the boy inside was still alive.
Her thoughts spun. Was another hired gun waiting for them? Someone like the man Griff had taken down on the roof?
Or would they finally get the truth, finally see the face behind all of this?
She pictured Caleb again. Fourteen. Big eyes, soft voice. Bound and blindfolded in that grainy photo. A kid who’d just been taking out the trash. Please. Let us be in time.
Griff slowed at the shop’s entrance, raising a hand for silence. Lily stopped beside him, heart hammering. The shadows inside the store were thick, the glass cold and smeared.
No sign of movement. No sound at all.
Griff glanced at her. She gave a tight nod.
It was time.
Griff tested the doorknob. Locked. He didn’t say a word. He just reached into his coat, pulled out a small tool kit, and knelt beside the lock. Within seconds, she heard the soft click of tumblers giving way.
He eased the door open.
No alarm sounded. Either the place didn’t have a security system… or someone had already jammed it. And they stepped inside.
The warmth from outside vanished as the door swung closed behind them, muffling the distant sirens. The shop smelled like dust and old fabric, a cloying sweetness in the air that reminded Lily of mothballs and lavender sachets.
Bolts of fabric stood like crooked sentinels along one wall, some patterned with florals, others worn thin by time.
Mannequins dressed in half-pinned garments stood frozen mid-pose, their blank stares turned toward the front windows.
A cracked mirror leaned behind a stack of antique hatboxes, reflecting slivered pieces of the dim room.
It was eerie. Like stepping into a space forgotten by time.
Griff tipped his head toward the back, eyes scanning every shadow.
Lily followed him, keeping her gun raised, boots silent on the creaky old floorboards.
Her nerves were sharp and ready, every sound amplified—the faint rustle of fabric, the tick of the old wall clock, the groan of an unseen pipe overhead.
They passed a vintage sewing table, its surface cluttered with tangled thread and broken scissors. The back hallway loomed ahead, a narrow passage flanked by faded wallpaper and a single closed door.
The storage room.
Griff paused just outside it. She felt the tension in the air tighten like a thread pulled too taut.
Griff motioned her to the left side of the door. She moved silently, gun steady, heart thudding in her chest.
He leaned in close, his mouth barely moving as he mouthed: Move fast.
She nodded once.
Then, he kicked the door in.
It flew open with a crash, slamming against the wall. The sudden noise echoed like a gunshot in the tight space. Total darkness loomed ahead, but Lily heard it. Shuffling footsteps, rushed, panicked. Her body tensed, ready for the crack of gunfire.
But nothing came.
She reached blindly to the wall, fingers sliding over cold plaster until they found the light switch. She flicked it on. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, pale glow over the small storage room.
Lily stepped into the room, heart hammering, weapon raised. Shadows loomed across the cramped space, strange shapes catching her eye.
Mannequins.
For one terrifying moment, Lily thought they were people, motionless figures watching from the corners. Her brain scrambled to make sense of them, her pulse surging.
Then her gaze locked onto something that didn’t belong. Someone.
And there he was.
Caleb.
Bound to a chair, blindfolded, just like in the photo. Shaking. He had a swatch of duct tape covering his mouth, and instead of his hands being tied in front of him, they were now tied behind, no doubt to prevent him from yanking off that tape.
Behind him, a figure in black, hood pulled up, ski mask covering everything but their eyes. The person had a gun pressed to the side of Caleb’s head.
Lily froze.
The gunman’s arm trembled slightly, the weapon not steady. Whoever this was, they weren’t calm. Weren’t trained.
They were desperate.
Griff’s voice was low and firm. “Put the gun down.”
The figure didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Lily’s pulse pounded in her ears. One wrong move, and that kid—
“Please,” she said quietly, trying to soften her tone, “you don’t want to do this. It’s over. The shooter on the roof can’t help you, and there are cops everywhere.”
Still nothing. Just a hitch in the gunman’s breath.
Lily took a careful step forward.
“Let the boy go,” Griff added. “We’re not here to shoot you. We want Caleb safe. You walk out alive if you put the gun down.”
But the figure didn’t lower the weapon.
Not yet.
Lily’s finger curled tighter around the trigger.
Waiting for a chance. For anything.
For the gun to move even an inch away from that terrified boy’s head.
Lily’s gaze swept over the figure’s broad coat, black hoodie, ski mask. At first glance, anyone would assume it was a man. But when the coat shifted with a slight movement, something about the way it hung, the narrow slope of the shoulders, the stance—
No. Not a man.
A woman.
Lily’s breath caught. It couldn’t be. But it was.
Her stomach turned. Her fingers tightened on her weapon, rage and disbelief fighting for space inside her.
“Margo,” she said carefully, her voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t want to hurt your own son.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and devastating.
Caleb’s head snapped in her direction. Even blindfolded, his body tensed. His lips parted like he was about to say something.
The woman behind him gasped, soft, sharp, familiar. It was enough. Confirmation.
Lily saw Griff’s jaw tighten from the corner of her eye. Her heart thudded harder, like her body was bracing for what her brain still couldn’t fully process.
Margo.
She’d taken Caleb. Held a gun to his head. Her own son.
And for what?
To keep the truth buried? To protect a lie?
Griff took a small step forward, voice steady and low. “You don’t have to do this, Margo. Caleb is safe. He’s alive. But he won’t be if you pull that trigger.”
Lily held her breath.
She watched Caleb’s small, shaking frame. The tremble of the gun.
And waited for the mother to surface.
The hoarse sob tore through the stillness like a scream. Then Margo’s hands flew to the edge of the mask. She yanked it off, revealing a face twisted with grief and panic, streaked with tears. Her lips trembled. Her eyes were wild.
And then she moved.
The gun jerked away from Caleb’s head and turned—fast, too fast—toward herself.
“No—” Lily breathed, lunging forward.
But Griff was faster.
He dove, slamming into Margo with enough force to drive both of them into the wall. And the gun went off. The sound of the shot ripped through the small room, deafening and final.
Lily’s pulse pounded in her ears as she dropped to her knees beside Caleb, shielding him with her body, bracing for blood, for screaming, for something—
But Griff’s groan wasn’t from pain.
He wasn’t hurt.
And neither was Caleb.
Lily’s wide eyes darted toward the wall. The bullet had torn through the shoulder of a mannequin, scattering bits of fabric and foam.
Margo lay beneath Griff, sobbing in great, shuddering waves, the gun now on the floor, kicked far from reach.
It was over.
Lily wrapped her arms around Caleb, feeling the tremble in his small body, the way his breaths came in short, shallow gasps.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now.”
And she meant it.
Because this nightmare, whatever sick version of love or vengeance had driven Margo to the edge, had just lost its grip.
Griff met her eyes from where he knelt beside Margo, his chest rising and falling with the weight of what they’d stopped. What they’d survived.
And finally, finally, Lily could breathe again.
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