I wrap my fingers, tightening the strips of cloth around my knuckles. The feeling of my hands protected and ready to fight soothes me.

The first punch lands with a satisfying thud against the bag. The force of it ripples through me, and I exhale, my breath a sharp hiss. I hit again, harder this time, the impact vibrating up my arm. With every strike, the tension in my body ebbs a bit more.

Ghost’s voice is still there in the back of my mind, taunting me. I slam my fist into the bag again, picturing his face—his smirk, that insufferable look that always says he knows something I don’t. The impact vibrates through my arms, sharp and satisfying.

My knuckles throb, the dull ache intensifying with every bit of forceful contact, but I don’t stop. The pain is good. It grounds me, gives me something tangible to focus on.

I hit harder, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as I push myself further. Sweat drips down my face, and the rhythmic sound of my fists colliding with the worn leather echoes around me. There’s no room for anything else in my mind but the bag, the burning in my muscles, and the steady throb in my hands.

For a moment I pause, resting against the wall, breathing hard as I wipe the sweat from my brow. The gym hums quietly, machines whirring in the background, but it’s mostly empty. Just a few stragglers on the treadmills who glance at me on occasion, their expressions wary.

Can they see the demon chasing me? Can they hear his voice?

I punch the bag again, then again, until my arms scream with exhaustion and my legs tremble. Only when I can barely stand do I finally stop, my breath ragged, my body spent.

I slowly unwind the wraps from my hands, wincing as the fabric peels away from my skin. I stare down at my knuckles, the skin cracked and bleeding. My body has taken punishment so my mind could be at peace.

The streets are quieter when I step back outside, the city deepening in repose. As I walk, I reach for my phone, half-expecting another message from Ghost. But the screen is blank. No taunts. No threats. Nothing.

A moment of peace? Or a calm before the storm?

I head home, each step slower than the last as the exhaustion creeps in. When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me with a sense of relief.

This is one of the few times that being alone isn’t the worst thing.

I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my jacket before jumping into the shower. After that, I throw on sweats and a t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed with a groan. The exhaustion is welcome, numbing the edges of my mind. Eventually, the dull hum of the city outside lulls me to sleep…

My phone chiming with a notification yanks me from repose. I groan, blindly reaching for it on the mattress. Once located, I squint at the screen, my fingers fumbling as I unlock the device.

The light is too bright, too harsh against the darkness of my bedroom, and it takes me a moment to read the words.

Unknown: Good morning, Dr. Andrews. Turn on the news.

I sit up quickly, my heart pounding against my ribs as I reread the message, trying to make sense of it. Dread weaves through me as my fingers hover over the screen. I’m hesitant to obey, but I have to know what’s going on.

After grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV and select the news channel. The reporter’s voice is solemn, heavy with the gravity of her story.

“Police have confirmed that a man was found dead in his downtown apartment early this morning, just after dawn. He has been identified as Mason Rivers…”

I freeze.

“Authorities are treating the case as a homicide.”

No. I shake my head, disbelief washing over me like ice water. No, no, no.

The image on the screen shifts to Mason’s building, police tape draped across the entrance, the flashing red and blue lights in the background. The reporter’s voice continues, but I can barely hear her. My mind is racing, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Mason is dead.

I watch in stunned silence as the details emerge, the sympathy in the reporter’s voice doing nothing to soften the brutality of what was done to him. The word “torture” is mentioned, and I flinch, the horror of it sinking in. She doesn’t go into specifics, but the implication is there, thick and suffocating.

Nausea hits me so hard that I slump onto the mattress as the room spins. I wanted him out of my life. But not like that. Mason didn’t deserve this ending.

It wasn’t just murder. Someone made him suffer.

A cold thought slips into my mind, and my stomach churns violently. Ghost. It had to be him. But how? He’s in prison. He couldn’t have done it himself.

Or did he?

Ghost is nothing if not resourceful. He could have hired a hitman to do the job for him. He must have influence. Power that reaches far beyond those bars.

I cling to that thought because the alternative—Ghost physically breaking out and doing this himself—is too terrifying to consider. If he can orchestrate something like this from behind prison walls, there’s still a level of separation. It’s less personal. He didn’t do it with his own hands.

But that thought doesn’t comfort me. Mason’s dead because Ghost wanted it. He told me so in person. I didn’t want to believe it then, but I sure as hell do now.

A sharp knock on my door shatters the silence. I nearly jump off my bed as a cold wave of fear washes over me. Another knock sounds, more insistent this time. It’s too early in the morning for visitors. And it’s not Ghost.

He wouldn’t knock.

My body moves on autopilot as I get to my feet and shuffle toward the door. I unlock it with trembling fingers and pull it open, revealing two police officers standing in the hallway, their expressions grim.

“Dr. Geneva Andrews?”

“Yes,” I reply, my throat dry.

The second officer steps forward, his hand resting lightly on his belt. “I’m Officer Kwan. This is Officer Jacob. We’re… we’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. Mason Rivers was found dead in his apartment this morning.”

“I just saw it on the news.” I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

The officer nods. “We know this might be difficult, but we need you to come down to the station. Just a few questions to help move the investigation along since you were one of the last people to contact him. We want to catch whoever did this as quickly as possible.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

I grab my jacket and phone, sending a quick text to Allen so he knows I’ll be late for work. The officers step aside, allowing me to close the door before leading me down the hallway. My mind spins, a chaotic jumble of conflicting thoughts.

Ghost is responsible for this.

But how do I explain that without sounding insane myself?

CHAPTER 21

An interrogation room is designed to strip away all sense of control and any shred of comfort. The walls are a dull, lifeless gray, similar to a cage, in order to elicit feelings of vulnerability and the sensation of being trapped. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, casting harsh shadows that distort everything, causing the mind to play tricks on itself. The cold metal table is too wide to foster connection, but too small to escape the pressure of the conversation. There isn’t a clock or any windows, just suffocating silence. Every inch of this room is meant to break the suspect. I’m familiar with the mental games that are being played.

Except this is my first time on the other side of the table.