Page 93 of The Final Contract
A muffled answer hums through the line. He nods once and flicks the call to speaker.
Killian drops his phone onto the mattress and pulls me into his lap like I weigh nothing. I straddle him, knees digging into the bed on either side of his thighs.
“We’ll hear it together,” he murmurs.
His arms cage around my waist, solid, immovable. I loop mine around his neck, press my face against him, and breathe him in. His skin, his warmth—anything to ground me. My heart still races like I’m back in that maze, my throat so dry it burns.
On the speaker, Jaxon yawns, the sound muffled by rapid keystrokes. “Hospital records are such a piece of cake.” He’s half-talking to himself, his voice edged with concentration. “Doing a wide search for Sarah Christina Appleton.”
Sarah Christina. Seraphina. Even her name is close. Too close.
“Shit.”
Killian stiffens under me. “What?”
“She could pass for Seraphina easy,” Jaxon says. “I’m sending you everything. Lucian too—he’s on the way over.”
Killian nods once, sharp, like Jaxon can see him.
“Got ’em,” Jaxon mutters, keys clacking faster. “Caleb Ward.”
The name is a shotgun blast. It ricochets through me—not because I know it, but because my bones do. My blood does. Every instinct inside me screams that’s him. The shadows finally have a name.
“Pulling up employer and last known.”
Silence for a breath. Then Jaxon curses. “You son of a bitch.” He exhales hard, disgust curling in his tone. “Lucian’s gonna be pissed. Just warning you now—maybe take the next week off to avoid his meltdown.”
“What is it, Jax?” My voice cracks.
“He works at the Ledger. Right now. He’s a janitor.”
The air leaves my lungs in a gasp. My fingers tremble as I grab the rendering off the nightstand—the one we made just days ago. I cover one eye with my hand, staring at the sketch, my voice breaking into a whisper. “Oh my God.”
Killian’s phone pings.
On the screen—his picture. Real. Current.
It’s him.
Nearly identical to the rendering.
Except for the black eye patch.
And I know—if it came off—I’d see it. That one blue eye that’s haunted me every night since this began.
FIVE YEARS AGO
The smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant clings to everything, even the cafeteria. Stasia and I sit side by side at one of the corner tables, both still in scrubs, both half-slumped from another night shift that doesn’t seem to end.
Aurora’s picture lights up her phone screen when she sets it down, and Stasia smiles like she can’t help it.
“She’s saying new words every day now,” she says around a bite of her sandwich. “And we’re gonna try potty training soon. Wish her auntie Sera was around more to see it.”
There it is. The guilt trip. She doesn’t even bother to make it subtle.
I pick at my salad, stabbing a tomato harder than necessary. “I’m trying, Stas. Between this and the Ledger?—”
“You can’t keep running yourself ragged.” She gives me that big-sister look, even though we’re the same age. “You’ve been doing two jobs for how long now?”
