Page 88 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

I don’t comment, and instead let her lead me out of the emergency department. There’s a glass walkway to the main hospital, and we hurry along that path, then up to the second floor. At the end of a small hallway, there’s a door labeled Quiet Room and another, Computer Lab.

I hug Parker. “You rock.”

She shrugs. “I spent a good amount of time here when they let me. You remember the quiet room.”

“How could I forget? It’s where we met.”

I’d burst into the room, panicking, and I hadn’t seen her in the corner. I had a meltdown. She’d calmed me down, read some of her book out loud to me, and our friendship was pretty much cemented after that moment.

“Does this have to do with the flash drive you got?” Parker asks.

“Maybe.”

She nods once. “We’ll keep people out.”

“Thanks.”

I pick a computer in the back and fire it up. There are only four desks in here, spread out around the room, and a lot of plugs for chargers and things. It’s like they know they don’t have enough outlets in the rooms and want to make up for it.

I plug in the USB and hold my breath. It has a single file on it, a video.

It’s shaky, handheld and sort of staticky—the type of filter social media influencers like to put on their posts—but this doesn’t seem intentional.

I can’t really tell what I’m looking at until the camera suddenly tips down. Running shoes and a packed dirt trail.

The person stops.

A second later, I hear, “Who’s there?”

Goosebumps rise along my arms.

That’s my voice.

I squint into the swirling white, barely making out what I imagine is me. I’m turning slowly.

Footsteps pound closer, and someone knocks into me.

That same person runs close enough to touch the person videoing.

And then laughter. Sick, deep laughter.

My stomach somersaults violently, and I push back the chair.

I didn’t imagine the laughter, or the feeling of being watched.

I knew it.

It doesn’t make me feel better—in fact, the opposite.

The video cuts out, snapping to black, and then a blinking cursor appears in the middle of the screen.

It types one letter at a time: You’re next.

Oh god.

I’m going to be sick.

I close out of it and eject the USB, rushing to the trashcan. I barely make it before I throw up, falling to my knees beside the door.

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