Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Salem sets the mug down carefully. “No, I’m coming.”
“No,” I say automatically.
Her eyes flash. “Yes.”
“Salem, it could be a trap.”
“It could be a clue,” she shoots back.
I scrub a hand over my face. “You don’t have training.”
She points at herself. “I survived being kidnapped. I’m training in real time.” That hits hard.
I exhale slowly. “You stay in the car.”
Salem’s mouth twists like she hates compromise, then she nods. “Fine.” Then she adds, softer, “I’m not staying here alone with my thoughts.”
“Okay,” I say. “We go.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction, relief slipping through.
I move fast after that. Because the longer I stand in this kitchen talking, the colder that lead gets. I grab keys, jacket, my knife roll, my phone. Salem disappears into the bedroom and returns in jeans, sneakers, hoodie. Hair pulled up. Determined look on her face.
“How do we find it?” Salem asks. “Did Arrow tell you where?”
I smirk. “I’ve got a guy on the inside,” I say, already texting Poe for details.
She smiles wide, and the sight of her does something to me. Something primal. I don’t comment on it. If I do, I’ll kiss her, or fuck her. Both are bad ideas right now.
We step outside and the cold hits us like a slap.
Salem inhales sharply. “God.”
“That gets the blood pumping,” I say with a laugh.
She snorts once, a quick burst of humor that’s mostly a defense mechanism. I respect it. I unlock the SUV and open her door. Salem pauses, staring at me like I’m being ridiculous.
“What,” I say.
She lifts a brow. “Are you opening my door?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Salem climbs in slowly, smiling like she hates how much she likes it. I shut the door, circle to the driver’s side, and get behind the wheel. Engine on. Heat blasting. The safehouse shrinks behind us as we pull onto the road.
Magnolia Ridge sits like a postcard town. Cute storefronts. Breweries. Smiling people who don’t know what it looks like when your whole life turns into a hunting ground.
We don’t head into town.
We skirt it.
Outskirts means industrial edges, empty lots, fields turning brown in the winter, old buildings that got left behind when the world moved on. The sky is pale and sharp. Clouds stretched thin like torn fabric.
Salem sits quiet beside me, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Her knee bounces once, then she forces it still. Her fingers twist in her lap like she’s holding herself together.
I keep both hands on the wheel. I keep my eyes moving. Mirror. Road. Tree line. Side street. I don’t like being out here without backup. I hate that I brought her. I hate more that I had to.
We take a turn onto a cracked service road lined with chain-link fencing. The asphalt is pitted and patched. Weeds poke through like the earth is trying to reclaim it. The further we drive, the quieter it gets. It’s just us and the sound of tires on old pavement.
Salem shifts in her seat. “This feels like a place where bodies get dumped.”
I glance at her. “You need to stop watching true crime.”
“I lived it,” she says, deadpan.
Fair.
The warehouse appears ahead, half hidden by trees and neglect. Big rectangular silhouette. Metal siding stained with rust streaks. Windows boarded in places. A loading dock with a sagging overhang. Graffiti on one side, faded and layered, like people kept coming back to mark their existence.
There’s a wide lot in front, mostly empty. Puddles reflecting the sky. Broken glass glittering near the edges. The kind of place that looks abandoned enough to be invisible.
I slow down and scan the area. It’s eerily empty, and I swear it feels like I’m being watched.
“What are you thinking?” Salem asks.
“I’m not sure.” I park a distance away, behind a line of scraggly pines. Not perfect cover, but better than sitting in the open like a target. “Stay in the car,” I say.
Salem nods, but her eyes follow me like she might jump out the second I move.
I reach across and squeeze her hand once. “Lock the door after me.”
Her throat bobs. “Okay.”
I get out, cold biting my face. The air smells like wet concrete and old oil. I shut the door softly and crouch low, moving toward the warehouse with my shoulders tight. Every step echoes in my head. Not loud, but loud enough. I keep my path along the fence line, using shadow and angle. I listen for anything. A footstep. A cough. The scrape of a shoe on gravel. Nothing.
I reach the edge of the lot and stop. My eyes scan the lot. Still nothing. I move again, closer now. The warehouse looms like a dead thing. The loading dock has old pallets stacked haphazardly. A torn tarp flaps slightly. The wind makes it whisper. A smell hits me near the dock. It’s something chemical. Cleaning solution. Like someone tried to erase a presence.