Page 21 of Fractured Loyalties
God, what is wrong with me?
I mutter it under my breath, not realizing I’ve said it aloud until the door swings open and Marsha from records pauses justinside the room. She gives me a look. Not cruel. Just cautious. Like she’s recalculating.
“Long day?” she asks.
I nod quickly, brushing my hair back and reaching for a bottle of water I don’t want.
She hums. “Tell me about it.” Then she ducks into the fridge and leaves without pressing further.
I wait until the door swings shut again before I let myself breathe.
Who the hell is Elias Voss? And why do I already feel like I’ve opened something I won’t be able to close?
I’m not scared. That’s not what this is.
It’s something else. Something sharper. Hungrier.
I lean forward and press my forehead to the cabinet door. The cold laminate soothes the heat prickling beneath my skin.
I should be terrified.
Instead, my pulse skips in anticipation.
The sun hangs low when I finally clock out, though it’s only a little past five. The fog hasn’t lifted all day. It crawls along the sidewalk like something with weight, brushing against my ankles as I step outside. Cold wind claws at my sleeves. I button my coat and start walking.
As I step onto the sidewalk, my mind drifts to Elias. I wonder if he’s still out there. Watching. Protecting. Or maybe just letting me test the edges of my own fear.
I glance at the row of parked cars across the street. None of them are his. Not the sleek black one from earlier. Not even anything close. Still, I feel it—presence. Not visible, but near. He could be half a block behind me, matching my pace. He could be across the street behind the tinted window of a café.
Or maybe I’m just going insane.
Each footstep crunches against scattered gravel as I take the longer route home—past the bookstore, around the florist’s alley. I like this path. It smells like old paper and sweet soil. I’ve walked it enough times that the turns feel instinctive. Familiar.
But today, something’s off.
There’s a pulse behind me. A rhythm. At first, it could be anything—an echo, my own steps bouncing off concrete.
But the sound persists. Syncs with mine, then shifts.
I glance behind me. The street is empty.
I turn down the alley. My shortcut. My mistake.
Halfway through, I hear it again. Closer.
My hand curls around the pepper spray in my coat pocket. My heart tries to push up through my throat. I turn fast—nothing there. No shadow. No silhouette. Just cold brick and rusted fire escapes and the echo of my own panic.
Then I see him.
Tall. Hooded. Maybe six strides back. Too far to make out his face. Too close to be coincidence.
I spin around and walk faster. The alley opens up into the side street by the bakery. If I make it there, I can disappear into a crowd.
My boot catches on uneven pavement. I stumble, catch myself, push forward.
He speeds up.
My lungs forget their rhythm. My hand tightens on the spray, but I don’t turn. I run.
