Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The driver doesn’t seem to notice my paranoia, or maybe he’s just used to neurotic passengers having breakdowns in his backseat.
When we pull up to my building, I notice another car parked across the street. A man sits behind the wheel, and when our looks collide in his side mirror, he looks away too quickly.
Something tightens in my chest. This isn’t paranoia anymore. This is confirmation.
I fumble with my keys at the front door, my hands shaking. Was this always going to happen? Had I been living on borrowed time, thinking I could stay under the radar forever? Maybe I should have run the first time I felt those eyes on me. Maybe I got too comfortable, too careless. Maybe this was always how it would end.
The lock that’s been broken for months suddenly seems less like a minor inconvenience and more like a death sentence. What kind of idiot lets something like that slide when she’s running from the people who killed her father? I should have been on the apartment manager’s ass about it from day one. Should have fixed it myself. Should have moved to a building with better security. Fuck, I got sloppy. Complacent. Started thinking like Saylor Mitchell instead of Sara Mitchell—the girl who knew that broken locks could get you killed.
Maybe I should call the police. But what would I say? That I’m scared? That someone might be following me? Nothing’s actually happened. I sound like some paranoid woman afraid of the dark. There’s nothing to report. I’m just in my head, spiraling. Calm down. Get a grip. This isn’t the first time I’ve been scared shitless and nothing happened.
I climb the three flights to my apartment, listening for footsteps behind me. The hallway seems longer than usual, darker. Every shadow could hide a threat, every creak of the old building could mask the sound of someone following me. When I reach my door, I freeze.
It’s slightly ajar.
I always lock my door. Always. Even when I’m just running downstairs to check the mail.
My heart tries to break free from my ribs as I push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is empty.
Not just empty of people—empty of everything. My furniture, my clothes, my books, even the coffee mug I left in the sink this morning. All of it, gone.
All except for a large steamer chest sitting in the middle of the room like some Victorian relic. Dark wood, brass fittings, and big enough to hide a body.
“What the fuck?” The words tear out of my throat, raw and disbelieving.
I spin in a circle, taking in the bare walls where my photographs used to hang, the empty spots where my bookshelf and couch should be. Even the curtains are gone. It’s like someone erased my entire existence in the span of a few hours.
“This is insane,” I say to the empty room, my words echoing off the bare walls. “This is completely fucking insane.”
But even as I say it, a cold certainty settles in my stomach. This isn’t random. This is them. The Crows. The ones who killed my father. The ones I’ve been running from for five years.
They found me.
And they’re going to make me completely disappear. Poof. Gone.
I walk over to the steamer chest, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. It’s old-fashioned and ominous, like something you’d find in a haunted attic. The lid is unlocked, and when I flip it open, it’s completely empty except for a faint smell of cedar and mothballs.
What the hell is this thing even for?
“We’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
The voice comes from behind me, low and smooth with just a hint of an accent I can’t quite place. I spin around to find three men standing in my doorway like Death’s own welcoming committee. The one in the middle is tall and lean with graying hair and cold eyes that remind me of winter mornings. The other two flank him like bookends—one built like a truck, the other wiry and sharp-faced like a snake.
“Sara Mitchell,” the middle one says, and hearing my real name spoken aloud after all these years makes my blood freeze. “Or do you prefer Saylor Mitchell these days?”
These are them. I know it with the same bone-deep certainty that told me something was wrong tonight. The Crows. The bastards who destroyed my life.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but my voice comes out smaller than I intended.
The middle one smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that would give children nightmares. “Of course you don’t. You’ve done such a good job disappearing. Five years is a long time to stay hidden. But you can’t sing in public and expect to remain invisible forever.”
“The White Note,” the truck-sized one rumbles. “Beautiful voice. Just like Peter said.”