Chapter 19
NINETEEN
SCARLETT
I’m still in my work clothes when I leave the clinic, dark jeans, a soft black blouse, and the light cardigan I keep on the back of my office chair.
My hair is twisted up in a messy bun and I smell more like the vanilla latte I spilled on my desk earlier than anything medical.
I’ve spent the last few hours buried in insurance paperwork and rescheduling, not patient rooms.
Rook was supposed to pick me up. He’d been glued to my side for days, following me to work, sitting in the small waiting area like a silent, tattooed shadow, then driving me home every night. But twenty minutes ago everything changes.
My phone rings while I’m finishing up the last of the billing in my office. Rook’s name lights up the screen.
“Baby, listen to me,” he says the second I answer. His voice is tight in a way that makes my stomach clench. “There’s a situation at your mom’s salon. Someone tried to grab her on the way to her car. She’s okay, the prospect with her handled it, but your dad wants everyone there now. I have to go.”
My heart drops. “Is she hurt?”
“No. Shaken up, but she’s fine. Piston’s already on his way.
I’m heading there too.” He pauses, and I can hear the conflict in his voice.
“I don’t want to leave you. I’m sending two prospects to follow you home.
They’ll stay on you the whole way. I need you to go straight there, Scarlett.
No stops. Not even for coffee or gas. Straight home. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
I hesitate, glancing out the window of my small office toward the parking lot. It looks normal. Quiet. “Okay,” I say. “Go take care of Mom. I’ll be fine. It’s only five minutes.”
“Text me the second you pull in the driveway,” he orders. “And Scarlett? I mean it. Straight home.”
“I promise.”
He exhales, low and rough. “I love you. Be careful.”
“I love you too.”
I end the call and sit there for a second with my hand still on the mouse, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling crawling up my spine. Sophie walks past my open door and gives me a concerned look when I tell her what’s happening.
“You want me to follow you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Rook’s sending two prospects. I’ll be fine.”
Famous last words.
The drive home is quiet. I keep checking my mirrors the way Rook taught me.
Two prospects stay a respectful distance behind me the entire way, close enough that I can see them, far enough that they aren’t crowding me.
When I turn onto my street, one of them lifts two fingers off his handlebars in a small wave.
I wave back, trying to ignore the knot still sitting in my stomach.
I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and sit there for a second with my hands on the wheel. The house looks normal. Peaceful. The prospects park at the end of the street like Rook told them to. I should feel safe.
I don’t.
Still, I grab my bag, climb out of the truck, and head inside. I’ll change clothes, text Rook that I’m home, and maybe take a quick shower before he gets here. Twenty minutes. That’s all I need.
The house feels too quiet when I push the front door open.
I kick off my boots by the mat the way I always do and drop my keys in the bowl on the entry table.
My shoulders ache from being hunched over a computer all day, and all I really want is a hot shower and to crawl into bed with one of Rook’s shirts that still smells like him.
I left him at the compound earlier after he got pulled into another meeting with Pres.
He kissed me hard before I left and told me to text him when I got home.
I didn’t.
I figured I’d be fine for twenty minutes. Two prospects were watching the road. Rook made me promise I wouldn’t go anywhere alone. The house was only five minutes from the compound. I thought I was being careful enough.
I was wrong.
The box is sitting in the middle of the kitchen table like it belongs there.
Plain brown cardboard. No return address. No tape. Just my name written across the top in careful, almost polite block letters.
Scarlett Blackstone.
My stomach drops so fast I actually press a hand to it. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I should turn around right now. I should walk straight back out the door, get in my truck, and drive to the compound. I should call Rook.
Instead I take two steps closer.
The house is silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the distant tick of the clock in the living room.
I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I glance toward the windows like I’ll see someone standing out there watching me.
Nothing. Just the darkening sky and the trees at the edge of the yard.
I should call someone.
My hand twitches toward my phone in my back pocket, but I don’t pull it out yet.
Part of me is still trying to convince myself this is nothing.
Maybe Mom left something for me. Maybe one of the old ladies dropped off a welcome-home gift.
Maybe it’s from Ethan, some pathetic last-ditch attempt to worm his way back in.
I know it’s not. My fingers shake as I reach for the box. It’s lighter than I expect. I set it back down and just stare at it for a long second, like if I look hard enough the name on top will change into someone else’s handwriting.
It doesn’t. I open it. The first thing I see is the locket.
It’s old. Tarnished silver on a broken chain.
I’ve seen this exact locket before, in the old newspaper clippings and crime scene photos Dad keeps in a locked file cabinet in his office.
It belonged to the girl he pulled out of that basement twenty-five years ago.
The one who lived. The one who testified against Samuel Cross and put him away. My mouth goes dry.
Underneath the locket is a single piece of paper, folded once down the middle. I don’t want to touch it. I really don’t. But my hand moves anyway.
I unfold it. The handwriting is neat. Almost careful. Like whoever wrote it took their time.
You took one from me. Now I’m going to take everything from you. Starting with her.
The paper flutters out of my fingers and lands on the table. The locket slips too, hitting the wood with a soft, damning clink that seems way too loud in the empty house.
I can’t breathe. My vision tunnels for a second. All I can see is that note. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. He’s been here. In this house. While I was at work. While Mom was at the salon. While Dad and Rook were at the compound thinking I was safe.
He’s been inside.
I yank my phone out of my pocket so fast I almost drop it. My thumb is shaking so bad it takes two tries to unlock the screen. I don’t even think, I just hit Dad’s name.
He answers before the first ring finishes. “Scarlett?”
“There’s a box,” I say. My voice comes out thin and reedy. “On the table. It’s from him. It has the locket from the old case and a note and—”
“Get out of the house.” His voice is instantly hard. No panic. Just pure, cold command. “Right now. Lock yourself in the truck and drive straight to the compound. Do not stop for anything. I’m sending Rook and two others to you now. Go. Scarlett, go.”
“I’m going,” I whisper. I’m already backing toward the front door, eyes darting around the kitchen like Cross is going to step out of the pantry. “Dad, I’m sorry. I thought it was safe for a few minutes. I should’ve called the second I saw the box—”
“Baby girl, listen to me.” His voice softens for half a second. “This is not your fault. You hear me? Now move your ass. I love you. Go.”
“I love you too.” I end the call and shove the phone in my pocket. My hands are numb. I spin toward the front door and take one step.
That’s when I feel someone standing too close.
I don’t get the chance to turn around before an arm slams around my throat from behind, thick and unyielding, yanking me back against a hard chest. My scream cuts off into a choked gasp.
Something soft and sweet-smelling presses hard over my mouth and nose, a rag, soaked in something chemical that burns my eyes and throat instantly.
I throw my elbow back as hard as I can and feel it connect with something solid.
The man behind me grunts but doesn’t let go.
I kick backward, aiming for his knee, his shin, anything.
My heel connects and he curses, low and vicious.
I claw at the arm around my throat with both hands, nails digging in, trying to rip skin.
I throw my head back, trying to smash my skull into his face, but none of it works.
The chemical smell is everywhere now. My lungs burn.
My vision starts to blur at the edges, going dark and spotty.
I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, way too fast. I think of Rook.
Of the way he looked at me this morning when he kissed me goodbye.
Of Dad’s voice on the phone telling me to run.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is the edge of the table and that broken silver chain glinting under the kitchen light. Then the world disappears.
I wake up in pain and lying on cold cement.
My head is throbbing like someone took a hammer to it.
My mouth tastes like chemicals and blood.
For a few seconds I don’t know where I am.
Then it all slams back into me, the box on the kitchen table, the note, Dad’s voice on the phone telling me to run, the arm around my throat, then the sweet-smelling rag.
My wrists are zip-tied behind my back, the plastic biting deep into my skin.
My ankles are bound to the legs of a metal chair.
The room is damp and reeks of wet earth, old blood, and something sour and rotten.
A single bare bulb swings slowly overhead, casting long, crawling shadows across the concrete walls.