Page 65 of Final Vendetta

I turned toward the building, every nerve in my body on edge. A million scenarios raced through my mind. Maybe it was a raccoon. Or a squirrel.

But it sounded too weighty to be an animal.

My heart hammering in my chest, I walked toward the door and placed my hand on the knob. With a steady inhale, I turned it, pushing the door open, unsure what I’d find.

But it was empty.

I stepped farther inside, my sneakers scuffing against the smooth floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. The garage smelled faintly of motor oil and damp concrete, the earthy scent mixing with a trace of mildew. The dim light filtering through the narrow windows cast uneven shadows across the floor, making the corners look darker and deeper than they were.

My eyes scanned the space, darting from one object to the next. The shelves lining the walls were cluttered but orderly — tools in neat rows, a box of Christmas decorations shoved to one side, a stack of old paint cans gathering dust that were here when I moved in.

I ran my hand along the workbench as I passed, the rough wood scraping against my skin. A few loose screws and nails clinked under my touch, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. The only movement came from the faint swing of a cobweb dangling in the far corner.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

I crouched to look beneath the workbench, half-expecting to find a squirrel or maybe a stray cat that had wandered in. There was nothing except an old tarp and a forgotten paint roller.

As I stood, the air seemed to shift, a faint whisper of coolness brushing against my neck like a draft. I spun around, my pulse pounding in my ears as I searched the space yet again.

The shadows seemed to still, like they were holding their breath, waiting.

But for what?

“Hello?” I managed to say through the dryness in my throat, the taste of stale air lingering on my tongue.

The only response was the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of a lawn mower coming from down the street.

I forced myself to exhale, my breath shaky and shallow. I was being ridiculous. It was just my imagination magnifying every creak and shadow into something sinister.

But then I swore I heard it again — something soft, like the scrape of a shoe against concrete growing closer and closer.

Before I could spin around, a hand grabbed my arm, another clamping over my mouth. Panic surged through me as I struggled against whoever held me. I tried to remember my self-defense training. I knew I needed to calm down enough to think clearly, but that was easier said than done.

It didn’t help that I hadn’t kept up on my training. Plus, I was still regaining my strength after the accident.

I attempted to free myself, but his hold on me was too resolute.

Then I felt a sharp pain in my head, the world around me going fuzzy before everything went dark.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gideon

“Imogene?”

My voice echoed as I walked into her townhouse, carrying a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Take a break for a minute. I brought sushi.”

Setting the bag onto the kitchen island, I grabbed a couple of plates and glasses. I worked quickly, pouring the wine and arranging the sushi.

When Imogene still hadn’t appeared by the time I finished, I called out to her again. But I didn’t hear her footsteps. She probably had her earbuds in, completely absorbed in her audiobook or music. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have to track her down in her own house.

I made my way down the back hallway and toward the office, peeking my head inside. It was empty. The boxes she’d packed up earlier this week were still lined up neatly against the wall, untouched since the last time I’d seen them.

Frowning, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to her bedroom was open, and the subtle scent of her coconut body wash hung in the air. But the room was empty, too.

I glanced out the window, wondering if she was packing up the garage. While the automatic door was closed, the side door was cracked open.

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