Page 25 of Make Them Cry
I grab my phone, my bag, and speed-walk toward the hallway before he can ask anything else.
In the empty corridor outside the conference rooms, I pull up the secure app—the one Mask used the first night he found me.
My fingers tremble as I type.
ME:They’re back. They’re in my apartment.
A beat passes.
Then my screen lights up.
MASK:I see it.
MASK:Leave the building. Now.
MASK:Do not take the front exit.
I swallow hard. ME:How do you always know?
MASK:Because I’m watching. Go to the east stairwell. Move quickly.
Part of me wants to throw my phone. To scream that I can’t keep doing this—living half-scared, half-protected by a ghost. But the rest of me—the part that’s been surviving by listening—moves.
My sneakers slap against the tile as I cut through the side hallway, past the break room. The office fades behind me. The stairwell door slams shut, echoing in the empty concrete stairwell. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Level three.
By the time I reach the garage, I’m breathing hard. The air smells like exhaust and dust. It’s dim—half the overhead lights flicker uselessly.
I check my phone.
No new messages.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself.
Then, from the corner of my eye—movement.
A shadow.
Long. Human.
I freeze.
Someone’s standing behind one of the support pillars near the back row of cars. I can’t see details, just the vague shape of a shoulder, the hint of dark clothing. My breath catches. The shadow shifts—like whoever it is just leaned forward.
My phone buzzes again. I flinch, nearly dropping it.
MASK:Do not panic. Get in your car and drive to the main exit. Keep your head down. Don’t run.
I glance toward my car. It’s only twenty feet away. But those twenty feet feel like a minefield.
I take a breath, force myself to walk—slow, steady, pretending I don’t see anything. My keys shake in my hand.
Ten feet.
Five.
Behind me, something scrapes.
