Unknown: I hate to tell you, but silence is agreeance, Dr. Andrews.

I type another cryptic text message and send it with my pulse racing. If she doesn’t seek me out after this, then I’ll lose my fucking mind. And put a tracker underneath that beautiful skin, blackmail her, or whatever the fuck it takes to keep her.

Actually, I think I’ll do all of that anyway.

Good idea, me.

Unknown: What if I told you the past isn’t as dead as you think? Would you believe that I know the identities and locations of the men from April 18th?

I watch the feed, my eyes locked on her as the message pops up on her phone. I can see the moment she reads it, the subtle shift in her posture, the tensing of her shoulders. She looks surprised, but there’s a flicker of something else that makes my dick hard. Complete and total rage.

Looks like that iceberg is melting…

She stands, walking back and forth, phone in hand, glancing around as if she can feel my eyes on her. I’ve seen her do this before, this restless pacing, and it always tells me the same thing—she’s trying to escape something, trying to avoid facing what she already knows to be true. I wish I could see her face more clearly, to gauge her full reaction, but the camera angles are limited. Still, I can read her body language like a book.

I imagine the thoughts running through her mind. How could he know?

Of course I know, Geneva. I know everything.

Her thumb hovers over her phone, and I can almost feel the indecision crackling through the air, even from here. She’s debating whether to respond, whether to engage me, and it’s exactly what I want.

The silence between us has lasted too long. I’ve missed our game, the push and pull of it, the way she tries to pretend she’s in control when we both know better.

I squint down at the grainy feed, watching her as she pauses in front of the window, staring out at the night. She’s thinking about me. I know she is. And as much as she wants to deny it, I’m the one who occupies her thoughts. Not Mason. Not anyone else.

Unknown: They thought they could disappear, but they’re not the ultimate magician. I am.

Geneva: Abracadabra, asshole. Go fuck yourself.

I slap a hand to my chest, close my eyes, and sigh. “I’ll definitely fuck myself, Dr. Andrews. While thinking of you.”

CHAPTER 15

Ghost is a fucking asshole.

And I’m going to visit him. Again.

It’s a dysfunctional cycle. I’m irritated at how easily I keep getting pulled back in. Back to facing things I don’t want to deal with. Back to facing him.

The truth is, I don’t know who I hate more at this point: Ghost, for the way he manipulated me, pushing and pulling until I revealed parts of myself I thought I’d buried? Or myself, for letting him do it?

I wasn’t supposed to crack that night with Mason. I wasn’t supposed to let Ghost’s twisted insight crawl under my skin. But I did. I fucking did. And Mason saw something in me that night, something dark that I couldn’t keep hidden anymore.

I drag my hands through my hair, pacing in my living room, my frustration building with each step. Ghost is the only one who’s ever seen me—really seen me. And that’s terrifying.

But it’s also addictive.

I stop moving and lean against the counter, tracing the bruise on my cheek. The memory of Mason’s barely contained rage plays out in my mind.

I stood there and smiled through the pain, because in that moment, I felt alive. Ghost was right. I’m not afraid of the darkness, or the fire that burns just beneath the surface.

I am the fire.

And fire has the means to destroy. To kill. That’s what scares the hell out of me.

Even with all of this bombarding my mind, making me crazy and putting me on edge, I can’t stop thinking about his latest text about April 18th—the night my parents were murdered. About knowing the identities of the men who killed them.

I was put into witness protection as a child. None of my blood relatives—excluding the aunt who raised me—know about my new identity. So, how does Ghost know about that night?

I continue tracing the outline of the bruise on my cheek, my thoughts spiraling in a million directions about the night I’ve spent years avoiding.

I’ve relived it over and over in my head, dissecting every detail, every moment, trying to make sense of the senseless. But now, with one text, Ghost has pulled the rug out from under everything I thought I knew.

I’ll never get the chance to ask those men why they did it. That’s what I’ve told myself for years. It’s what I’ve clung to, what I’ve built my entire sense of closure around. And now Ghost, with his twisted games, is trying to unravel it all with a few well-placed words. It’s gnawing at my insides, threatening to tear me apart.

What if he’s not lying?

I grip the counter, my knuckles whitening as I push back against the flood of doubt that’s crashing over me. I want to dismiss the text. I want to believe that Ghost is just messing with me to see if he can make me break. But deep down, something about it feels… true.

Ghost knows things he shouldn’t. He’s proven that already, time and time again. How the hell would he know about April 18th, about the specifics of that night, unless he’s found something I haven’t?

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm the storm raging inside me. Ghost has been pulling at the strings of my mind for weeks now, unraveling me bit by bit. But this is different. This isn’t just about me. This is about my parents. About their deaths. About everything I’ve spent years trying to understand. And now, he’s telling me that I might have a chance to get real answers.

I walk to the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water onto my face, trying to clear my head. But it’s no use. The words keep circling, digging deeper into my mind, forcing me to confront the possibility that my past isn’t as settled as I thought.

“Would you believe that I know the identities and locations of the men from April 18th?”

I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the sink, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. If what Ghost says is true, then it changes everything. The way I’ve lived my life, the choices I’ve made—all of it has been shaped by the belief that I’d never be able to confront my parents’ killers.

But what if I could?

I push away from the sink, pacing again, my mind spinning. I want to see Ghost, demand answers, and make him tell me what he knows. But deep down, I know that’s exactly what he wants. He’s been playing with my mind for weeks while watching me scramble to make sense of it all. And now, he’s thrown this at me, knowing it’s the one thing I can’t ignore.

The one thing that will make me come back.

I stop pacing, my breath heavy, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t just let this go. I need to know. I have to know why those men destroyed my entire life.

I grab my keys, my mind already made up. I’m going back to him. To the prison. To Ghost. And this time, I’m not leaving until I get the answers I want.

Right now, I don’t just hate Ghost.

I hate that I need him.

CHAPTER 16