Page 1 of Edge of Control

Prologue

Theo Glass

“I’m soclose to figuring it out.”

My sister sat in the middle of an explosion of papers, arranged like rays of sunshine around her. Whenever she latched onto a new obsession, she always got that intense light in her eyes—but this time, that glimmer worried me.

“Why has this consumed you?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve never seen you this focused on anything.”

Em sighed and ran a hand through her freshly styled waves of brown hair, the kind she only got for special occasions. Maybe she had a date. “Theo, these people are monsters, and they’re ruining lives.”

“Yeah, but why make it your personal mission to bring them down?” I pressed. “It sounds dangerous.”

She tapped on an old, dog-eared volume of Edgar Allan Poe’s works, clearly set aside away from the mess of papers. She carried that book around with her everywhere. Another one of her obsessions. “Because deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Sometimes you have to stare into the darkness to find the truth. If no one else is willing to do it, then I will.”

I arched a brow. “You and Mr. Poe.” Despite my teasing, I couldn’t hide my concern. We’d been through hell together; I wanted her safe, not tangling with criminals. “Just promise you’ll be careful.”

Her gaze softened. “I will. Look—” She fanned out a few pages covered in coded names and rumors. “I found out the group calls itself ‘Pressure Point,’ but I still haven’t nailed down who’s in charge. Once I figure that out, the entire organization should topple.”

I studied the corkboard she’d pinned to the wall—fragments of threatening letters, news snippets about a nefarious criminal group, a handful of cryptic references. My stomach twisted. “I hate this for you. Feels like a loaded gun, pointed in your direction.”

Em placed her hand over mine. “We’ve survived worse. Trust me.” She said it with the same fierce protectiveness she’d shown me since we were kids—like I was the one who needed saving. “Just have faith.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. But remember, I’ve got your back. Always.”

She smiled, the kind that lit up a room. “That goes both ways.”

Still, that kernel of fear ate away at my core. There was something she wasn’t telling me. A reason why she was so invested in this. It felt like she was racing against time. But why?

Rain battered the windows with a fury that matched the panic rising in my chest. I’d just come back from a night drinking at the bars. I had been looking for a hook-up and found one in the bathroom stall. It was fun, took the edge off, let me relax a bit.

But the second I got home I could feel something was off. It was a gut instinct that rang warning bells louder than the sirens that wailed nearby. I was fumbling for my keys when I noticed the apartment door was half-open—Em’s handbag dropped by the entry, her shoes haphazardly kicked off.

She never left anything lying around. She was always yelling at me to keep things clean. And she’d never leave the door open like this.

“Em?” My voice echoed in the silence as I stepped inside, heart thudding.

No answer.

A single lamp glowed in the living room.

That’s when I saw her.

No, not her.

Her corpse.

She wasn’t there anymore. She was gone. Em was dead.

My sister hung from the ceiling, a rope fixed around her neck. Her face slack, eyes half-lidded, feet dangling. The scene was so wrong that my brain refused to process it. I’d walked into a sick stage play. A director would soon yell ‘cut!’ and everything would return back to normal. My sister would open her eyes, she’d wave this all away, she’d, she’d, she’d.

She’d never come back.

“Em!” I choked out her name, lurching forward. My hands trembled as I reached for her, desperate to find a pulse, any sign of life. She was cold. Far too cold. I lifted her body, easing the strain around her neck, hugging her to me. Crying. Shouting.

She’d have never done this. Why would she do this? Em was always so full of life. She’d helped me survive so fucking much, she’d survived it with me.

I stumbled back, grief seizing my lungs in a vice. On the table nearby, something caught my eye: a crumpled note typed out on regular printer paper.

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