Page 12 of Intense
With one hand wrapped around the pepper spray in my pocket, relief washes over me as I unlock my car. But then I spot a small white slip tucked under my windshield.
I pick it up, holding my breath. A messy handwritten note, with a PR stamp on the top.
EXPECT A PHONE CALL, DR. MILLER.
My heart practically leaps out of my chest. It has to be that guy from earlier.
They know my real name. My job.
What the hell does he want with me?
And what the hell does the PR stand for?
I’m kicking myself. I knew there was something off about him.
I jump in the car and lock the doors, my pulse racing.
And then my phone rings.
Unknownflashing on the screen.
I hit accept and stay quiet, trying to calm my breathing.
“Dr. Miller.” A distorted voice fills the line.
Well, fuck.
“Who is this?”
“That is none of your concern. We have a task for you. If you wish to live, you’ll stay on the line and listen to our proposition.”
My fist clenches.
What do they know about me?
I’m careful. Always. No kills in the club. I follow them home. I make it look clean. Undetectable.
There’s no way I slipped.
“Stephanie?”
“Y-yes. I’ll listen.”
“Do you recognize the name Mark Fisher?”
My stomach drops.
My first kill. The man who shattered me. Who brokered my body to his men like a fucking commodity.
“I think I know the name vaguely,” I lie.
The voice laughs.
“Knew. But we know what you did. Very naughty.”
My nails dig into my skin.
“What do you want?” I ask, practically whispering.
