EMMA

When Adam's footsteps faded down the hall, I stayed still for a full minute, listening to the building settle around me.

Then another minute... and another.

Only when the silence grew heavy enough to feel did I move.

I pushed myself off the bed, one hand braced against the mattress. The world tilted, the edges of the room melting and reshaping. The drug still clung to my body like weight in deep water. My head throbbed, black dots flickering at the corners of my vision.

I waited it out, breathing slowly until the nausea passed, then turned toward the window.

A cheap padlock hung from the latch, edges eaten by rust. It looked easy until you remembered how useful a small, honest lock could be to someone who had nothing to pick it with.

I muttered a curse under my breath. Damn you, Adam.

The memory of him, of that last conversation, sent a cold shiver crawling down my spine.

I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting him to walk back in and chain me down until he was ready to drag me to whatever hellhole he had in mind.

I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it. Nothing. Just the faint pulse of the city beyond the walls.

I closed my eyes, drew in a steady breath, then turned back to face the room.

He might think he remembered a lot about me—how I talked, what made me tick—but he sure had forgotten one thing. I had always been good at finding cracks.

My gaze swept the room, hope thinning with every glance. A bare dresser. An empty nightstand. And the only lamp was wired and bolted to the ceiling.

He had even taken the empty water bottle when he left, like he knew I would try to use it for something.

"Damn it," I hissed, dragging my fingers through my hair.

Then my gaze landed on the folded clothes, the ones he had smugly said would look better on me.

I grabbed them, ready to throw them across the room, but stopped when I saw the price tag dangling from the jeans. A faint glint of metal winked in the light.

A safety pin.

The universe really did have a sick sense of humor.

A shaky breath escaped me, and I couldn't tell if it was a sob or a laugh.

The pin was small and flimsy, but I had worked with less before.

I yanked it free and pried it open with my thumbnail, pressing hard until the metal bent into a small hook. Then I used my teeth, scraping ridges into the other side of the wire until it felt right. My gums stung; the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, but I didn't stop.

When it looked good enough, I hurried to the window. It was my only option. The door wasn't a choice.

My fingers shook from adrenaline mixed with whatever they had given me. I forced myself to focus and slid the pin into the padlock.

"Come on," I whispered, twisting the wire carefully, listening for the faintest give. "Come on."

The lock was old but stubborn. It resisted every movement, metal scraping inside. Sweat ran down my neck. The lamp kept flickering above me as if mocking my efforts.

Three minutes passed, maybe five. My hands cramped, but I didn't stop.

Then finally, I heard it. The click.

The lock snapped open. For a second, I just stared at it, stunned, the rush of relief nearly knocking the air from my lungs. A small, broken sound slipped out before I could stop it.

I wiped the sweat from my face with my sleeve, drew a steadying breath, and slipped the padlock free. Then, slowly, I pushed the window up.

It groaned in protest. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

Carefully, I looked over my shoulder. When nothing moved—no footsteps, no creak of the handle—I tried again, gentler this time, inch by inch until the gap was wide enough to squeeze through.

Cold air rushed in, sharp with salt, diesel, and the low hum of the docks. It brushed my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

I grabbed the sweater from the floor and pulled it over my scrubs, anything to look less like an escaped inmate. The sleeves hung long, so I rolled them tight. Then I looked out, bracing myself for what waited beyond the glass.

The room I was in sat three stories up. The ground below was hard asphalt, unforgiving. But a few broken shipping pallets leaned against the wall. I wondered if I jumped right maybe I could land on them. They might soften the fall... or snap my back in half.

But staying only meant a slower kind of death, and I would rather take the one that came with motion.

Then I spotted it... a fire escape. It was about six feet to the left and slightly lower. Iron bars clung to the brick like a skeleton. If I could swing far enough, I might land on the platform.

"Okay." I swallowed hard. "Okay, Emma. Think."

There wasn't much to think about, not really. I had to try. Even if it was the last thing I did.

I turned back to the bed. The sheet was thin, but it might hold, just long enough for one swing, maybe two.

I stripped it off and tied it into tight knots, my fingers moving on instinct, guided by every close call that had ever demanded quick hands and a desperate mind.

The rope I ended up with was short, but just enough. I fastened it to the bed frame and tossed the other end out the window. It dangled a few inches above the fire escape.

Not perfect, but it would have to do.

I gripped the windowsill until my knuckles turned white, my eyes fixed on the horizon.

He was right. I could just make out the Statue of Liberty, just a pale outline behind the fog and cranes. The sky was dull gray, the city quiet, yet she remained standing, unshaken, guarding the place that had both made and broken me.

I closed my eyes, thinking about Officer Collins, Eric... and Jake.

If this was it, if the plan failed and it all ended here, would he ever doubt what really happened? Or would he just believe I had ridden off into the sunset with a cold-blooded murderer?

I shook the thought away. I didn't have time for what-ifs. I needed to move.

I climbed onto the sill, the cold air biting at my face. I didn't look down.

"Don't think," I whispered.

Wrapping the sheet around my forearms, I pushed off and swung left.

The fabric tore almost instantly.

My stomach dropped as air roared past my ears. But the sheet slowed me just enough to twist midair and catch the edge of the fire escape. My hands clamped down, every muscle screaming as I hung there, suspended between survival and the fall.

My legs kicked for footing and slammed into something sharp. Pain ripped through me as a metal bracket carved into my thigh, warm blood slicking down to my ankle. I bit down on a scream until I tasted copper.

For a moment, I just hung there, gasping, shaking, every nerve on fire. The world tilted, nausea clawing at the back of my throat. My fingers started to slip.

I forced them to hold. Then, inch by inch, I hauled myself up, every pull sending pain shooting through my arms until my whole body was one throbbing ache.

Panting, my feet finally caught the edge. I dragged myself over the rail and collapsed onto the metal grate, gasping until the dizziness eased.

When I finally looked down, blood was running warm down my right thigh. The gash was deep, and it had barely missed the artery.

But it didn't matter. I was alive.

I took one last look at the window, half expecting to see him standing there. But it was empty.

I pushed myself to my feet and started down the fire escape, as fast and as quietly as my trembling limbs would allow.

My leg screamed with every step, but all that mattered was getting away before the monster upstairs noticed his prize was gone.

When my feet finally hit the ground, I ran, limping, stumbling, but still running anyway. I didn't know where I was going, only that I had to keep moving.

I ran until my legs trembled beneath me, every breath catching fire on its way out.

I pressed my back against a cold brick wall, panting, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. The world still tilted every time I blinked.

I forced myself to look around. The street was nearly deserted, just the faraway echo of engines from the docks and the faint slap of water against the pier.

Pain flared in my leg, blood soaking the scrub fabric beneath the borrowed sweater. I pressed my hand to the wound, biting back a groan, and forced myself onward.

I moved a few steps more, and then I saw him...

An old man hunched by a bin, sorting through a bag of cans. His clothes were layered and torn, and his face was half-hidden under a wool cap. He looked up when he heard my footsteps. His gray eyes widened when he saw me, and he took a step back.

I couldn't blame him. I probably looked like a serial killer.

"Please," I said, my voice cracking. "I—I just need your phone. One minute, that's all."

He hesitated, clutching the bag as if it were the only thing holding his life together. His gaze flicked over me, the blood, the faint tan of my prison scrubs showing beneath the sweater. His brow furrowed.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," I said quickly. "I just need to make a call. Please. Someone's after me."

Something in my tone must've convinced him. After a moment, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a cracked smartphone.

"Battery's low," he muttered, handing it over.

My fingers trembled as I took it. "Thank you. Thank you."

The screen smeared under my touch as I opened the dial pad. The first number that came to mind was Eric's. I pressed it before I could think twice.

My heartbeat filled my ears as the line kept ringing before it went to voicemail.

My eyes stung. I tried again, and it went straight to voicemail.

"Come on, come on," I whispered. The raw desperation in my own voice broke something loose inside me.

For a second, I considered calling 911. Maybe it didn't matter if they arrested me. Maybe I just needed to be somewhere safe. Somewhere with locks that kept him out, not me in.

But even as the thought formed, reality crushed it.

Who would believe me?

To them, I was already a fugitive. A convict on the run. Maybe even a cop killer.

Despair tightened its claws around my chest. My vision blurred. The world tilted again, and for a moment, I thought I might collapse right there, beside the trash, the damp pavement, and the old man watching me like I might take off with his phone... in this state.

But then my fingers moved on their own, dialing a number I still knew by heart.

Jake...

If there was even a chance—just one—that he would listen before the rest of the world made up its mind, I had to take it.

The phone rang once... twice.

On the third ring, his voice cut through the static. "Parker."

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. "Jake—"

Before I could say anything else, a shadow fell over me. I turned quickly and froze.

"Always running, Emma." Adam's voice was smooth, almost amused. "You never learn."

He stepped out from the mouth of the alley, calm as ever, a faint grin pulling at the scar on his face. He held a gun like an accessory, his finger lazily resting on the trigger. The morning light caught the gold in his eyes.

"God," he said, almost fond. "I missed this part."

The man who had given me the phone stiffened, taking a half-step forward. "Hey, leave her alone, man—"

Before I could move, the crack of the gunshot shattered the air. The sound ricocheted off the walls, echoing down the empty street.

I screamed.

The phone slipped from my hand and clattered against the pavement.

"Emma!" Jake's voice cut through the speaker.

Adam crouched beside the man's body, the smoke from the barrel curling lazily in the cold air. He brushed his fingers through the spreading blood like he were testing color on a canvas, then looked up at me, calm, almost pitying.

"See what you do to people?" he said softly. "His blood's on your hands now."

I couldn't move. My body was locked in place, eyes fixed on the old man gasping for breath on the ground.

Adam straightened, sliding the gun into his coat. He smiled at the man like they had just finished a pleasant exchange.

"Now," he said, stepping toward me, "let's not make this harder than it has to be."

I backed away until the wall caught me. My mind screamed run, but my body refused to listen. I wasn't sure I even could.

He grabbed my arm, pausing only when Jake's voice burst through the phone again.

"Emma!"

Adam looked down, his lips curling into a smile as he ground his boot into the phone, crushing it until the line went dead.

The last thing Jake heard was my muffled scream, and the city swallowing it whole.