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A figure travels through the parking lot.
Dread coils in my stomach as I push the curtain farther aside. The person below stops near the rental sedan and looks up. A tremor of fear skitters down my back as they appear to be looking directly at me. They can’t see me… But still, I step away.
Meet me.
The words written in the note from yesterday flare to life, as if they’ve been whispered in my ear.
The devil’s hour. It would be decidedly stupid for me to meet this person now, alone. I know this, and yet the urgent press to dart to the parking lot and catch them before they can escape thrums through me.
Who’s down there hidden behind the shadows? Who’s waiting for me to come?
Rationally, Rhys and I should investigate together. My anxiety is cli
mbing. What if this is my only chance to confront my killer? Cam’s killer? What if I can end this before anyone else gets hurt?
Yes, that’s what I want—but I’m not a saint.
I whisper the word, and my soul feels as light as air. “Revenge.”
Not justice. Not closure.
Retribution.
Right now, feeling the aching void of what was stolen from me anew…that person doesn’t get to have justice.
I’m the nexus. This started with me—and it needs to end with me.
The decision was made before I closed the text message. I slip on a pair of jeans and tuck in Rhys’s shirt. His scent envelops me, comforting, lending me his strength. I want to keep him close, even though I have to leave him behind.
I eye his service weapon on the nightstand table.
I’ve never shot a gun before. It seems likely that the perpetrator could turn it around on me, so I decide against taking the weapon and instead snag the metal handcuffs from his belt.
One last glance behind as Rhys slumbers in bed, then I slip out of the room.
The air outside the hotel is humid despite the early hour. The mugginess thickens my throat as I hastily maneuver through the parking lot. I weave around cars with purpose toward the sedan. If that person is still out here, if they’re watching, waiting, I don’t want them to think I’m aware.
I click the key fob, and the sedan’s lights blink a couple of times. I wait a moment longer, pretending to check my phone, giving them time to approach me, before I settle behind the wheel.
My heart gallops audibly in my ears.
What am I doing?
I’m crazy.
I look through the windshield, not spotting any notes. Maybe I imagined them, the wires in my brain still crossed, faulty. I breathe a curse and rest my forehead against the wheel.
An engine cranks, light beams into the car’s interior.
Slowly, I look up.
For a moment, I’m blinded by the headlights of the car directly across the lot. Then, as the car backs out of the parking spot, my eyes adjust. I can make out the profile of a woman in the driver’s seat. It’s the hair; I recognize the long waves. The light shade.
Chelsea.
My mind springs to this conclusion before I can rationalize another logical reason as to why some random woman would be hovering around a car at three in the morning.
The car idles in the parking lot, and pressure beats at my temples.
