CHAPTER ONE
Twenty-Four Years Later
I woke at 3:17 in the morning with the uncomfortable certainty that someone was in my room.
I didn't move. For several seconds, I just stared into the darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. My bedroom looked exactly as I'd left it. Clothes hung over the chair in the corner, a half-empty glass of water sat on my nightstand, and pale moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, stretching across the floor.
Nothing moved.
Still, something felt… off. Not frightening exactly. It felt more like I'd walked into a room moments after someone had left it—an absence that somehow felt like a presence.
I reached blindly for my phone and squinted at the screen. 3:17 a.m. My alarm was set for four anyway.
“Great.”
There was no point lying there for another forty-three minutes convincing myself every shadow in my bedroom had moved, so I pushed the blankets aside and headed for the bathroom. A cold shower would fix it. Or at least wake me up enough to convince myself there was nothing to fix.
I turned the water cold and immediately regretted it.
“Fuck.”
I sucked in a breath as the water hit my shoulders but forced myself beneath the spray. Cold water had always been pretty good at shutting my brain up. Usually.
I closed my eyes and let it run down my back. For the briefest moment, something warm moved beneath my left shoulder blade. My eyes opened, and I reached behind myself, running my fingers across the familiar skin.
Nothing.
I stood there for another second before shaking my head. “Too damn early.”
After shutting off the water, I grabbed my towel and rubbed it over my face before wrapping it around myself. The mirror had completely fogged over, which was probably for the best. I wasn't particularly interested in seeing what four hours of sleep looked like on me anyway.
I grabbed another towel and squeezed the water from my hair. There was a lot of it. My hair fell well past my shoulders, jet black and perpetually undecided about what it wanted to be. It wasn't straight, but it wasn't curly either. Instead, it fell in long S-shaped waves that twisted wherever they pleased. Not the pretty, effortless beach waves people spent money trying to get. Mine had opinions, especially when it was wet.
I dragged a brush through it, working from the ends until I could get my fingers through without losing half my scalp. Most mornings, I braided it, and today wasn't going to be an exception. I divided it into three sections and worked my way down, leaving a few shorter strands loose around my face because they'd escape within an hour anyway.
When I finished, I wiped a circle into the fogged mirror. My reflection appeared through the glass. Light honey eyes stared back at me, made almost golden by the ugly yellow bathroom light. They'd always been the first thing people noticed against my warm brown skin and dark hair. I never understood why. They were just eyes.
I leaned closer and rubbed beneath one of them. “Looking fantastic, Lara.”
The woman in the mirror disagreed.
At least the rest of me looked awake. Mostly. Years of refusing to sit still had left me with an athletic build—strong shoulders, defined legs, a little softness where I wanted it. Feminine without being delicate.
I'd never been delicate.
Something about that thought made my eyes drift toward my shoulder, toward what I couldn't see from this angle. The scar.
For a moment, I considered turning around and checking it again, but instead I dropped the towel and reached for my clothes. It was a scar. It had been there my entire life, and whatever weird sensation I'd felt in the shower was probably my body's way of reminding me that I hadn't gotten enough sleep. Again.
By the time I made it out of the bathroom, the strange feeling that had woken me had almost disappeared.
Almost.
My apartment was technically a one-bedroom, though whoever had designed the place had apparently decided one person needed an unreasonable number of stairs. The bedroom and bathroom sat on the upper level, with the living room and kitchen below. The place was old, slightly crooked, and complained loudly whenever I moved through it.
I'd lived there long enough to learn its language. The third stair creaked. The fifth groaned. I stepped over the seventh because it made a sound remarkably similar to a dying animal, and no one needed that kind of negativity before sunrise.
At the bottom of the stairs, Maven was stretched across the floor.
“Morning, lazy.”
Her tail tapped once against the hardwood without her bothering to lift her head.
“Glad you're excited to see me.”
Another thump. That was apparently all the enthusiasm I deserved.
I continued toward the kitchen. Coffee first. Everything else second.
I'd barely made it through the doorway when Maven suddenly lifted her head. I didn't notice at first because I was too busy fumbling with the coffee maker, but behind me I heard her get up. Her nails clicked softly against the hardwood, then stopped.
I glanced over my shoulder. Maven stood in the middle of the living room, her ears tilted forward.
“What?”
She ignored me. Her attention was fixed on the window.
The curtain lifted gently, then fell.
I looked toward it. Nothing strange about that. Old apartment. Drafty windows.
I turned back to my coffee.
Then something passed behind me.
I couldn't explain it any other way. I didn't see anything or hear anything. I just felt it—a whisper of cool air brushing across the back of my neck.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned around.
Nothing.
The living room was empty, but Maven wasn't looking at the window anymore. She was staring toward the hallway.
“Mave?”
Her eyes shifted slowly, like she was following something from the hallway, across the living room, toward the stairs.
Every tiny hair on my arms stood up.
“Maven.”
Her ears twitched. Then, suddenly, whatever had caught her attention seemed to disappear. She blinked, her shoulders relaxed, and she looked at me like I was the one acting weird.
I stared at the staircase as the same feeling from my bedroom crawled back beneath my skin.
Someone had been there.
I didn't know why I thought that. There was no one standing in my apartment. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing.
The coffee maker sputtered behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Jesus!”
I pressed a hand against my chest. Maven's tail started wagging.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Oh, shut up.”
I turned back toward the counter and grabbed my mug. I had work. I was tired. Apparently my brain had decided three in the morning was the perfect time to start inventing ghosts.
Behind me, fabric rustled.
I looked back.
The curtain beside the window drifted gently toward the floor.
My eyes moved to the window. The latch was locked.
I walked over and pressed my fingers against the glass. Cold. I checked the edges, but there was nothing. No draft.
Maven wandered over and leaned against my leg.
“Old apartment,” I muttered, though I wasn't sure whether I was talking to her or myself.
I checked the time.
3:46 a.m.
“Shit.”
That was enough paranormal investigation for one morning.
I filled Maven's bowl, refreshed her water, and grabbed my bag from the hook beside the door.
“You're in charge. Don't throw any parties.”
Maven looked up from her breakfast.
“You're terrible company.”
I leaned down and kissed the top of her head anyway. When I straightened, my eyes drifted toward the stairs one last time.
Nothing.
Of course there was nothing.
I grabbed my coat and stepped outside. The November air hit me immediately, cold enough to make me pull the coat tighter around myself but not quite cold enough to see my breath.
The world was still mostly asleep. A few windows glowed in the buildings around mine. Somewhere down the street, an engine struggled to turn over. The pavement was damp from rain sometime during the night, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights.
Normal. Quiet. Exactly what I needed.
I locked the door behind me, checked it, then checked it again.
“Ridiculous.”
I headed toward my car, my boots scraping softly against the pavement as I dug through my bag for my keys.
That's when I felt it again.
That sensation.
Being watched.
I stopped.
Don't.
I already knew what would happen if I turned around. There would be nothing there because there was nothing there.
I turned around anyway.
My apartment building stood behind me, all dark windows and wet brick. The curtain in my living room window hung perfectly still.
I almost laughed at myself.
Then something moved in the window above it.
My bedroom.
A shadow.
It was quick. So quick I wasn't entirely sure I'd seen it.
My breath caught as I stared at the window, waiting for it to happen again.
Five seconds passed.
Then ten.
Nothing.
“Okay.”
My voice sounded embarrassingly small in the empty parking lot.
I unlocked my car and got inside, locking the doors immediately. Not because I was scared. Because I always locked them.
Mostly.
I started the engine. The dashboard illuminated, and my phone automatically connected to the car.
The date flashed across the screen.
October 31.
Eleven days.
Twenty-nine.
I hadn't thought much about my birthday yet. There wasn't much to think about. Twenty-nine wasn't exactly a milestone. It was just the awkward year before thirty—the age everyone apparently expected you to have opinions about retirement accounts and property values while still eating cereal for dinner.
I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat.
“Eleven days.”
I pulled out of the parking lot.
By the time I reached the main road, I'd managed to convince myself the shadow had been a reflection. A passing car. A tree branch. Anything. There were dozens of explanations.
I turned the radio up, letting the familiar noise fill the car until the tension slowly left my shoulders.
Work. Coffee. Home. Sleep.
That was my day.
That was my life.
Normal. Predictable. Mine.
At the next red light, warmth bloomed beneath my left shoulder blade.
My hand tightened around the steering wheel.
It lasted barely a second.
Then it was gone.
I stared ahead until the light turned green and the car behind me honked.
“I'm going.”
I pressed the gas.
And I didn't think about the scar again.
At least, that's what I told myself.