Page 18 of For Fear

Evan stepped out into the evening's embrace, the cool air slapping him with a sobering kiss. His eyes, half-lidded with resignation, barely registered the cracked pavement of the parking lot. It was a stretch of gray spotted with the carcasses of rusted cars—relics that, like him, had seen better days. The streetlamp flickered above, a beacon of mediocrity struggling to keep the shadows at bay.

He walked, or rather shuffled, his steps a slow dance to the rhythm of his own downfall. Memories came unbidden, a cruel slideshow of his rise and precipitous fall. Once upon a time, Evan Rhodes meant something—the man with the Midas touch in the tech world. Now? He was just another shadow under a sputtering light, a nobody haunted by the ghosts of a life misspent.

The dumpster loomed ahead, a monolith to wasted potential. With a grunt, he hoisted the trash bag—his recent companion in solitude—and lobbed it toward oblivion. It landed with a thud, the sound echoing off the empty walls of the complex, mocking him with its finality.

For a moment, Evan's hand rested on the cold metal rim of the dumpster. This hunk of steel held more than just refuse; it cradled his past, the remnants of a life he once thought he controlled. Letting go should've felt significant, cathartic even,but there was no relief in the act, only the hollow echo of an empty bin.

"Should've played your cards better, Rhodes," he murmured to himself, the words lost to the stillness of the night. Redemption? Recovery? Those were words for someone who hadn't squandered their chance, not for a man who'd gambled away his future.

He turned, facing the bleak expanse of the lot. No one would bet on Evan Rhodes now, not even Evan himself. A gust of wind whipped through, chilling him to the bone, as if nature itself was urging him to accept the truth—he was ruined, and it was nobody's fault but his own.

Evan spun on his heel, a tinge of unease prickling the back of his neck as he caught sight of the figure emerging from the shadows. The shape was nothing more than a blur at first, a smudge against the night. He squinted, the alcohol in his system making the world swim before his eyes. It took him a moment to register that the smudge was a man, just another lost soul perhaps, but there was something about the way he moved—steady, unfaltering—that set off alarm bells in Evan's head.

The stranger sauntered into the weak halo of the streetlamp, his features etched out of the darkness. His clothes were nondescript, the kind you'd never remember in a lineup. Something about the calmness in his walk, the measured steps, made Evan's heart skitter like a trapped bird against his ribs.

"Hey," Evan called out, his voice rough around the edges, hoping to god he sounded tougher than he felt. "Can I help you?"

No response came. Just the steady beat of shoes against asphalt as the man drew nearer. Evan's gaze darted around the parking lot, seeking an audience to this silent approach, maybe even a savior. But it was just him and the approaching figure, alone under the indifferent gaze of the flickering streetlamp.

"Look, buddy, if it's money you're after—" Evan's voice broke off as his eyes caught a flash of metal.

A knife.

A cruel smile spread across the stranger’s face.

CHAPTER TEN

The key scraped in the lock, echoing in the stillness of the night. Morgan's hand trembled slightly as she pushed open the door, her body screaming for rest. The familiar scent of home hit her nostrils, a mixture of old leather and lavender air freshener that usually brought comfort. Tonight, it only emphasized how long they'd been away, chasing ghosts and shadows.

Derik stumbled in behind her, his usual grace replaced by bone-deep weariness. "Christ, I feel like I've aged a decade in a week," he muttered.

Morgan nodded, her throat too tight for words. The weight of their investigation, the constant threat of Cordell's men, pressed down on her like a physical force. She glanced at the windows, checking for any sign of surveillance or danger – a habit that had become second nature.

A soft whine and the click of nails on hardwood broke through her paranoia. Skunk appeared from the darkness of the living room, his stocky pitbull frame a welcome sight. His tail wagged lazily, a picture of normalcy in their upside-down world.

"Hey, boy," Morgan whispered, dropping to her knees. She buried her fingers in his short fur, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. For a moment, the world narrowed to just this – the warmth of her dog, the simple joy of coming home.

Derik leaned against the wall, a ghost of a smile on his tired face. "At least someone's happy to see us."

Morgan looked up at him, seeing the strain around his eyes, the new lines etched by worry and sleepless nights. He was putting himself in danger by still being with her. Morgan's stomach clenched at the thought. She pushed it away, focusing on the here and now.

She reached out, taking Derik's hand. It was a small gesture, but it anchored them both. Skunk pressed against her leg, a warm, solid presence.

For a moment, they stood there in the dim entryway, a tableau of exhaustion and resilience. Morgan allowed herself to imagine, just for a second, that they were safe here. That the outside world, with its dangers and complexities, couldn't touch them.

But even as the thought formed, she knew it for the lie it was. This respite was temporary, a brief calm before the storm that was surely coming.

Morgan's eyelids felt like lead weights as she and Derik shuffled down the hallway. The silence of the house wrapped around them like a thick blanket, muffling even the sound of their footsteps. When they finally reached her bedroom, Morgan didn't bother with the lights. They collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight.

For a long moment, they just lay there, breathing in sync. Morgan could feel the heat of Derik's body next to her, a comforting presence in the darkness. She turned to face him, her hand finding him in the shadows.

"We made it through another day," she whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Derik's fingers tightened around hers. "Barely," he murmured back.

Morgan inched closer, until their foreheads were touching. She could smell the faint traces of his aftershave, mixed with sweat and the metallic tang of fear that seemed to cling to them both these days.

"I keep thinking about Cordell," she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "About what he took from me. From us."

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