Her brown hair has been brushed smooth, and she’s dressed in an elegant pair of pajamas, the kind you’d wear to feel lovely, not to be left to decay in a basement. One long strand of hair falls across her face. Even so, I know exactly who she is.
I watch her movements, unsure if she’s dead or alive.
But one thing I am confident in…
The girl on the couch is Madison Tory.
42
MADISON
One Year Earlier
Madison strolls out of the sixth-floor elevator as the doors slide open, a nervousness in her gait. As though her thoughts are wrapped in the fibers of her outfit, she flattens the edge of her tucked-in turtleneck and brushes the thighs of her high-waisted pants as she approaches her boss’s office door.
“Knock, knock,” she calls lightly, pushing open the cracked door.
“Hey!” Harrison beams, looking up from his computer. “Come on in.”
The office is muted, lit only by the large window on the west wall, the sun covered mostly by pebble-toned clouds. The fall season is taking its time to settle, only four days into its arrival, as the trees scattering the city remain a rich green. The top half of the Seattle Great Wheel, down on the pier, slices through the gray horizon, its slow rotation a ghost of summertime.
Madison lowers into the chair across from her boss’s desk, her shoulders stiff with the weight of what she’s about to say. Her entire day has been a smudge of email chains and talent scouting on the internet. But this… this has been poking at her since she texted Harrison hours ago.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can,” she begins. “I know you’re busy. And, to be honest… it’s an uncomfortable situation for me.”
“Shoot,” Harrison says, casual but attentive, a pen spinning idly between his fingers. “You can tell me anything.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you…” She trails off, his face hardening in concern. “For the past couple months”—she swallows, picking dead skin from her thumbnail—“Peter has been… unprofessional with me. He’s always been friendly and, frankly,flirtatious—which I’ve never reciprocated. But he’s become much more physical lately.”
Harrison straightens. “What?” The word drips with disgust.
She turns her head, watching the glimmer of that Ferris wheel beyond the window. Suddenly, she’s back there, in Peter’s office. The last time it happened.
It was last Friday night, a couple hours after everyone else had left for the weekend. Madison was staying late, adding final touches to the week’s artist-scouting reports—scrubbing through demos, cross-checking streaming analytics, updating the shared roster with the handful of new acts she’d spent days tracking down. Normally, she loved the quiet of research, the way her headphones could make the world disappear. But that night, she rushed through the work with frantic precision, knowing Peter was waiting for her in his office on the floor above.
He’d given her a special project: pitch decks, press kits, invites for an upcoming artist showcase—the first big one she’d been trustedto coordinate almost entirely on her own. Peter had been hovering all week, breathing down her neck about curating fresh stars who would impress.
When she finished, she took the elevator up, hoping Harrison would be at his desk next door. He wasn’t. No one else was on the entire floor—that she could see. Peter’s office was dark except for the lemony glow of his desk lamp and the neon haze of the city through the wall of glass. Music hummed softly from his turntable, something slow, bass heavy.
Peter always carried himself like someone the whole world deferred to—statuesque, with those tailored shirts that hinted at an old-money upbringing. A posh British accent that turned insults charming. When she’d first started, she caught herself wanting to impress him, like everyone did. He made you feel seen, like your work mattered. Like you mattered.
“There’s my girl,” he’d said when she walked in, getting up and locking the door with a casual flick of his wrist. Like she wouldn’t notice. “Couldn’t do this showcase without you.”
She followed him to his desk, a crystal tumbler in his hand. “You work too hard, Mads. Sit. Relax.” He gestured to the leather couch in the corner, the one where visiting artists lounged.
He snatched the report from her grasp, setting it down atop his keyboard without a glance.
“Actually, I should really get going. It’s late,” she protested. “Thanks for the invite, though.”
He grabbed her hand, hard at first, then lax. “You’ve got it, you know,” he said. “That spark no one can teach.”
Her heart thudded. She tried to shift away, but his arm came up behind her, boxing her in.
“I could fast-track you.” He smiled, blond hair flopping in his eyes. He was loose with drink. Too loose.
The smell of whiskey and expensive cologne clung to him, and his mouth lingered near her neck. His palm trailed slowly down her arm, and then, without pause, bent around her waist, pulling her into him.
“Peter, no—” she tried.
