But I’m scared it might already be too late.
Chapter Three
Lyra
My pulse hammers in my throat, a relentless drumbeat that hasn’t stopped since the hooded man’s fingers clawed at my locket. The chain seemed to sear my skin like a curse come alive.
Every step toward my apartment drags like wading through quicksand, and the September air slashes my lungs with its icy claws.
I’m shaking—hands, knees, soul—adrenaline curdling into dread that tastes like ash on my tongue.
Dealing with the attacker was bad enough.
But Stryker also haunts me.
Hawkeye Security.
Good God. Anyone but them.
And if Stryker is any indication, Hawkeye Security is every bit as dangerous as my father taught me.
My rescuer’s dark eyes see too much. And he has an awful trait that terrifies me. He refuses to let go of something once it’s snagged his interest.
Makes for a great investigator.
Terrifying if you’re the one caught in his crosshairs.
As I hurry, I scan every shadow, every face—a jogger, a dog walker, the woman opening the flower shop.
Am I being watched? Followed?
The gun is heavy against my hip, urging me to get home to my space, my fortress. I need to regroup, plan my next alias, my next city.
But when I reach the door to my third-floor walk-up in the unassuming Wash Park building—chosen for its anonymity, its lack of cameras, fire escape out my back window—I know someone has been in my apartment.
There’s a scratch on the doorknob that wasn’t there earlier. As if someone used a pick.
My heart slamming, I pull out my Glock.
After I thumb the safety off, I hold my gun low and ready as I open the door and nudge it open with my foot, slowly and silently.
Dear God.
Chaos greets me.
But the invasion instantly sharpens my senses. There’s a faint scent of putrid sweat lingering the air, and the creak of floorboards seems to screech under my running shoes.
Leading with my gun, I sweep the living room.
My minimalist haven—carefully curated to be forgettable, functional, with clean lines and zero personal touches—has been gutted.
The sofa cushions are slashed open, foam spilling like entrails onto the hardwood floor.
My small bookshelf has been toppled, and paperbacks are splayed like broken wings. They’re thrillers and design books, bought at the thrift store, and nothing about them screams “thief’s daughter.”
My laptop’s gone, but that’s no loss; it’s a dummy that I wipe clean daily.
I move toward the kitchenette to clear it.
