Racing the Elevators
I was out of the car before Callum killed the engine.
The lobby of my mother's building gleamed with that particular brand of corporate sterility—marble floors, chrome fixtures, a security desk manned by someone who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. I didn't slow down. My sneakers squeaked against the polished stone as I made for the elevators, but Callum's hand closed around my wrist.
"Security first."
"My mother—"
"Is either fine or not." His fingers tightened. "Running in blind helps no one."
The security guard looked up from his phone, bored expression shifting to mild interest as we approached. His name tag read DEREK in all caps, like that made him more official.
"Help you?"
"Evelyn Mercer." I leaned against the desk, trying to keep my voice level even though my pulse was doing double-time against my ribs. "What floor?"
"Twelve. But I can't let you up without—"
"When did she arrive this morning?"
Derek's eyes narrowed. "I'm not supposed to—"
Callum placed his phone on the desk, the photo of my mother's ransacked office facing up. "When."
Something in his tone made Derek sit straighter. "Seven-thirty. Same as always."
"Anyone go up after her?"
"Lots of people work in this building, man."
"Anyone unusual." Callum's voice dropped lower, and I watched Derek's Adam's apple bob. "Anyone who didn't belong."
"There was—" Derek glanced at his computer screen. "Maybe around eight-fifteen? Guy signed in as a courier. Said he had a package for Ms. Mercer."
My stomach dropped. "What did he look like?"
"I don't know, average? White guy, maybe forty, baseball cap." Derek was scrolling through something now, frowning. "Weird thing is, he never signed out."
"Show me the footage."
"I can't just—"
Callum pulled out his wallet, extracted three hundred-dollar bills, and laid them on the desk with the careful precision of someone who'd done this before. "Show us the footage."
Derek looked at the money, then at us, then back at the money. His hand moved fast.
The security monitor showed grainy black-and-white footage of the lobby from this morning. I watched my mother walk in at 7:28, her posture perfect even in two dimensions, wearing the navy suit I'd helped her pick out last Christmas. She didn't look scared. Didn't look like someone who knew what was coming.
At 8:17, a man in a courier uniform entered. Baseball cap pulled low, face angled away from the camera like he knew exactly where it was positioned. He carried a small package, signed something at the desk, and headed for the elevators.
"There." I pointed. "Can you follow him?"
Derek switched cameras. Elevator bank. The man stepped inside, pressed a button. The doors closed.
"Which floor?"
"Twelve."
My nails bit into my palms. "And he never came back down?"
"Not through the lobby." Derek was typing now, pulling up more footage. "But there's a service exit on the ground floor. No camera there—budget cuts."
"Of course there isn't." I turned to Callum. "We need to go up."
"Not we." He was already moving toward the elevators. "You stay here."
"Like hell—"
"Sloane." He stopped, turned. His eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them, and something in his expression made my breath catch. "If this is a trap, if someone's waiting up there, I need to know you're safe."
"And I need to know my mother's alive."
"Which is why I'm going." His face hardened. "Please."
I'd never heard him say please before. It sounded wrong in his mouth, like a word in a foreign language he'd only just learned.
"Five minutes," I said. "Then I'm coming up whether you like it or not."
He nodded once and was gone.
I lasted three minutes.
Derek tried to stop me—half-hearted protest about building policy and liability—but I was already in the elevator, jabbing the button for the twelfth floor hard enough to hurt my finger. The doors slid shut. My reflection stared back at me from the polished metal, all sharp angles and smudged eyeliner and my grandmother's ring catching the fluorescent light.
Legacy without love is just an expensive tombstone.
My mother had said that once, years ago, when I'd asked why she kept working instead of retiring. I hadn't understood then. Thought it was just another one of her cryptic pronouncements, the kind she specialized in when she didn't want to give a straight answer.
The elevator dinged. Twelfth floor.
The doors opened onto a hallway that smelled like coffee and copy paper and something else—something metallic that made my throat close. I followed the scent, my sneakers silent on the industrial carpet, past doors with frosted glass and names I didn't recognize.
My mother's office was at the end of the hall.
The door stood open.
I could see Callum inside, crouched next to the overturned chair, his phone pressed to his ear. He was speaking in that low, controlled voice he used when things were very, very bad.
"I don't care what it takes. Find her."
I stepped through the doorway.
The office looked like a crime scene. Papers scattered across the floor, desk drawers pulled out and emptied, the potted orchid my mother had kept for five years smashed against the wall. And on the floor, near the window, a dark stain that was definitely not coffee.
"Is that—"
"Blood." Callum stood, pocketing his phone. "Not much. Could be from a cut, a nosebleed, anything."
"Or it could be from someone attacking her."
"Yes."
The word hung between us, heavy and terrible.
I moved to the desk, started rifling through the scattered papers. Client files, contracts, nothing that looked—
"Sloane."
"I'm looking for clues, evidence, something—"
"Sloane." His hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm. "The police are coming."
"The police?" I spun to face him. "We can't involve the police, if Victoria finds out—"
"Victoria already knows." He gestured to the room. "This is a message. She wants us scared, wants us making mistakes."
"Then we don't give her what she wants."
"We also don't get your mother killed by playing hero."
The words hit like a slap. I stepped back, and his hand fell away.
"You think I'm playing?"
"I think you're terrified." His voice softened. "I think you're looking at your mother's blood on the floor and trying not to fall apart, and I think that's exactly what Victoria wants."
"Don't." My throat was tight. "Don't psychoanalyze me right now."
"Then tell me what you need."
What I needed was my mother safe. What I needed was to rewind the last three weeks, to never have met Callum Hargrave, to never have learned that my entire life had been orchestrated by people who thought they knew better.
What I needed was impossible.
"I need to find her."
"We will."
"You don't know that."
"No." He moved closer, and I could smell his cologne—something expensive and understated that probably cost more than my rent. "But I know Victoria. She doesn't kill quickly. She likes to make people suffer first, likes to watch them break."
"That's supposed to be comforting?"
"It's supposed to be realistic." His eyes held mine. "Your mother is alive. Victoria will keep her that way as long as she's useful."
"Useful for what?"
"For getting to you."
The words settled in my chest like stones. "Me."
"You're the endgame, Sloane. You always have been." He pulled out his phone, showed me something—a text message from an unknown number, sent twenty minutes ago. "This came while you were in the elevator."
The message read: Trade. The daughter for the mother. Tonight. Alone. Instructions to follow.
My hands started shaking. "You weren't going to tell me."
"I was going to handle it."
"Handle it how? By trading yourself instead?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Very noble. Very stupid."
"Better than letting you walk into a trap."
"It's not your choice to make."
"Like hell it isn't." His voice rose for the first time since I'd met him, and the sound of it—raw, almost desperate—made me flinch. "Your mother called me three weeks ago because she knew this was coming. She asked me to keep you safe, and I will not—" He stopped, jaw working. "I will not fail her."
"Even if it means failing me?"
The question hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.
Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.
"We need to leave," Callum said. "Now."
"The police—"
"Will ask questions we can't answer without making things worse." He was already moving toward the door, but I stayed rooted in place, staring at the blood on the floor.
My mother's blood.
My mother, who'd orchestrated my entire relationship with the man standing in front of me. Who'd kept secrets and made plans and thought she could control everything, even Victoria Hargrave.
My mother, who might be dying somewhere while I stood here trying to decide whether to trust the man she'd chosen for me.
"Sloane." Callum's voice, urgent now. "We're out of time."
I looked at him—really looked. At the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled into fists, the muscle jumping in his jaw. He was scared. Callum Hargrave, who never showed emotion, who spoke in measured tones and controlled every situation, was terrified.
For my mother.
Or for me.
Maybe both.
"If we do this your way," I said slowly, "if we leave now and don't talk to the police, you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"No more secrets." I moved closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "No more protecting me by keeping me in the dark. Whatever happens next, we face it together, or we don't face it at all."
He studied my face for a long moment, and I watched something shift in his expression—some internal calculation being made and discarded.
"Together," he said finally.
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I could see it in the way he wouldn't quite meet my eyes, in the careful neutrality of his tone. "You're already planning something, some way to handle this without me."
The sirens were louder now. Close.
"Sloane—"
"Tell me I'm wrong."
He didn't.
I pushed past him, heading for the door, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop me.
"Let go."
"Not until you listen."
"I'm done listening to people who think they know what's best for me." I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. "My mother, you, Victoria—you're all playing the same game, just with different rules."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" The word came out sharp, almost a laugh. "Nothing about this is fair. My mother's missing, someone's threatening to kill me, and the man I—" I stopped, pressed her lips together. "The man I thought I knew turns out to be just another piece on the board."
His expression shifted, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face before he could hide it. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to meet you because your mother asked me to?"
"Didn't you?"
"At first." His thumb moved against my wrist, a small unconscious gesture that made my pulse jump. "But that was before I knew you. Before I realized that Evelyn had undersold you in every possible way."
"Undersold me how?"
"She said you were smart. You're brilliant. She said you were stubborn. You're immovable. She said you needed protection." His eyes locked on mine. "You don't need protection, Sloane. You need someone who won't try to control you."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I'd been trying to ignore since this whole thing started.
"And you think that's you?"
"I think I'm trying." His voice dropped lower. "I think I'm failing, but I'm trying."
The sirens stopped. Car doors slamming, voices in the lobby below.
"We need to go," I said.
"Not until you promise me something."
"What?"
"That you won't do anything stupid." His grip on my wrist loosened but didn't release. "That you won't try to trade yourself for your mother, that you won't go running into whatever trap Victoria's set."
"I can't promise that."
"Sloane—"
"She's my mother." My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it. "If it were your mother, what would you do?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to. We both knew.
Footsteps in the hallway, getting closer.
Callum pulled me toward the window. "Service stairs. This way."
We made it to the stairwell just as voices echoed from my mother's office. I caught a glimpse of uniforms, radios crackling, before the door swung shut behind us.
The stairs were concrete and industrial, our footsteps echoing as we descended. Twelve floors felt like a hundred. My legs burned, my lungs ached, and all I could think about was that dark stain on the floor.
My mother's blood.
We burst out into an alley behind the building, and the sudden brightness made me squint. Callum's car was parked two blocks away—he must have moved it while I was in the elevator—and we ran for it, my sneakers slapping against wet pavement.
I was reaching for the passenger door when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A video this time. Ten seconds long.
My mother, tied to a chair in a room I didn't recognize. Her face was bruised, lip split, but her eyes were clear and furious. She was saying something, but there was no audio.
Below the video: Midnight. Pier 17. Come alone or she dies. Tell Callum and she dies. Bring anyone and she dies. You have one chance.
I looked up at Callum, who was watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
"What is it?"
I should have shown him. Should have kept my promise about no more secrets.
Instead, I deleted the message and slid the phone into my pocket.
"Nothing," I said. "Wrong number."
He didn't believe me—I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, in the slight tension that crept into his shoulders—but he didn't push.
We got in the car.
He started the engine.
And my phone buzzed again.
This time, when I looked, there was a photo of Callum and me, taken just now in the alley. The angle suggested someone on a rooftop, maybe two buildings over.
The message below read: I'm watching. Don't test me.
I turned the phone face-down on my lap, and Callum glanced over.
"Sloane—"
"Drive."
"Where?"
Good question. Where did you go when someone was watching your every move? When your mother was bleeding in some unknown location and you had eight hours until a deadline that might be a trap?
"Your place," I said finally. "We need to regroup, figure out our next move."
He nodded and pulled into traffic.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, and tried to figure out how I was going to get to Pier 17 at midnight without Callum following me.
Because I was going. Promise or no promise, secrets or no secrets, I was going.
And if that made me stupid, reckless, exactly what Victoria wanted—
Well.
At least I'd be doing it for the right reasons.
Callum's apartment was in Tribeca, all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Hudson that probably cost more per month than I made in a year. He'd barely unlocked the door before his phone rang.
"Hargrave." A pause. "When?" Another pause, longer this time. His expression went carefully blank. "I see. Thank you."
He ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.
"What?"
"That was my contact at the NYPD." He moved to the window, hands in his pockets. "They found something in your mother's office. Hidden under the desk."
My heart stuttered. "What kind of something?"
"A phone. Burner, untraceable. One number in the call log, called three times in the last week."
"Whose number?"
He turned to face me, and something in his expression made my stomach drop.
"Mine."
The word hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I didn't want to examine.
"She was calling you."
"Yes."
"From a burner phone."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know." But his voice was too careful, too controlled. "She didn't leave messages."
"But you knew it was her."
"I suspected."
"And you didn't think to mention this?" My voice rose. "You didn't think that maybe, possibly, it might be relevant that my mother was calling you from an untraceable phone?"
"I didn't know what it meant."
"Bullshit." I moved closer, and he held his ground. "You knew exactly what it meant. She was scared. She was hiding something. And you—what? Decided to keep that to yourself?"
"I was trying to protect you."
"By lying?"
"By not adding to your burden." His mouth went flat. "You were already dealing with enough."
"That's not your call to make."
"Then whose call is it?" He stepped forward, and suddenly we were inches apart, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "You want complete honesty? Fine. Your mother called me three weeks ago, terrified, saying Victoria had found her. She asked me to watch over you, to keep you safe, and she made me promise not to tell you because she knew—she knew—you'd do exactly what you're planning to do right now."
"Which is?"
"Something reckless and stupid that will get you killed."
"You don't know what I'm planning."
"Don't I?" His eyes searched my face. "You got a message in the car. Something that made you go pale, made you delete it immediately. And now you're looking at me like you're calculating how to get away, how to slip out without me noticing."
My throat went dry. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Show me your phone."
"No."
"Sloane—"
"No." I stepped back, and my spine hit the wall. "You don't get to demand honesty when you've been lying since the day we met."
"I never lied to you."
"You just omitted the truth. That's so much better."
"It is when the truth would have sent you running straight into danger." He braced one hand against the wall beside my head, and I hated how my pulse jumped at the proximity. "Your mother knew you, Sloane. She knew you'd sacrifice yourself without hesitation, and she couldn't—" His voice cracked, just slightly. "She couldn't bear the thought of losing you."
"So she sent you instead."
"Yes."
"To manipulate me. To get close to me. To make me trust you."
"At first." His other hand came up, fingers ghosting along my jaw. "But that was before."
"Before what?"
"Before I realized I was the one being manipulated." His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I couldn't breathe. "Your mother didn't just ask me to protect you. She knew—somehow she knew—that I wouldn't be able to walk away once I met you."
"That's—"
"True." His eyes held mine. "She played me, Sloane. Just like she played you. The difference is, I don't regret it."
I should have pushed him away. Should have demanded answers, explanations, something that made sense of the tangled mess we'd found ourselves in.
Instead, I kissed him.
It was stupid, reckless, exactly the kind of thing I'd sworn I wouldn't do. But his lips were warm and his hand was in my hair and for just a moment, I let myself forget about midnight deadlines and threatening messages and my mother's blood on the floor.
He pulled back first, breathing hard.
"Sloane—"
"Don't." I pressed my fingers to his lips. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Don't tell me this is a mistake or that we need to focus or that—"
My phone buzzed.
We both froze.
I pulled it out slowly, dreading what I'd find.
Another video. Longer this time, almost thirty seconds.
My mother, still tied to the chair. But now there was someone else in the frame—a figure in black, face obscured, holding something that glinted in the dim light.
A knife.
The figure moved closer to my mother, and she flinched, trying to pull away. The knife came down—
I couldn't watch. Couldn't breathe.
The video ended.
Below it: Eight hours. Don't be late.
Callum took the phone from my shaking hands, watched the video, and went very, very still.
"We're calling the police."
"No."
"Sloane—"
"They said no police. They said come alone or she dies."
"And you believe them?" He was already moving, pulling out his own phone. "This is a trap. They're going to kill her whether you show up or not."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He turned to face me, and his expression was harder than I'd ever seen it. "This is what Victoria does. She makes you think you have a choice, makes you think you can save someone, and then she takes everything anyway."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"We go in prepared. Armed. With backup."
"And if they're watching? If they see backup and kill her before we even get close?"
"Then at least you'll be alive."
The words hit like a punch. "That's not good enough."
"It has to be."
"No." I moved toward the door, but he was faster, blocking my path. "Get out of my way."
"Not until you listen to reason."
"Reason?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "There's nothing reasonable about any of this. My mother is going to die unless I do exactly what they say, and you want me to—what? Trust that your plan will work? Trust that you know better?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I don't want to be alive if it means my mother dies."
The words hung between us, raw and terrible.
Callum's expression shifted, something breaking behind his eyes. "Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because—" He stopped, jaw working. "Because I can't lose you both."
The admission hung in the air, vulnerable and unexpected.
"Both?"
"Your mother asked me to protect you, but she also—" He turned away, one hand scrubbing over his face. "She was the closest thing I had to family after my father died. She helped me when no one else would, gave me a chance when I had nothing. And now she's in danger because of me, because Victoria found out I was helping her, and if I can't save her—"
His voice broke.
I'd never seen him like this. Never seen the careful control slip, never heard the desperation underneath.
"Callum—"
"I need you to trust me." He turned back, and his eyes were bright. "Just this once. Let me handle this my way."
"Your way gets her killed."
"My way gives us a fighting chance."
"And my way?"
"Your way gets you both killed." He moved closer, hands coming up to frame my face. "Please, Sloane. Please don't do this."
I wanted to say yes. Wanted to let him take control, to trust that he knew what he was doing.
But I kept seeing that video. Kept seeing the knife, my mother's fear, the blood that might already be spilling.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
His expression shuttered. "For what?"
I pulled away, moved toward the door.
"Sloane—"
"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be right back."
It was a lie. We both knew it.
But he let me go anyway.
The bathroom had a window. Small, but big enough. I climbed through, dropped into the alley below, and ran.
Behind me, I heard Callum shouting my name.
I didn't look back.
Pier 17 at night was all shadows and salt air and the sound of water lapping against wood. I arrived two hours early, which was either smart or suicidal—I hadn't decided which.
The pier was deserted. Warehouses loomed on either side, dark and silent. My footsteps echoed on the wooden planks as I walked toward the end, where the Hudson stretched out black and infinite.
I was alone.
Completely, terrifyingly alone.
My phone buzzed.
Good girl. Now wait.
I waited.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
The cold seeped through my jacket, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
At 11:47, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Tall, dressed in black, face still obscured.
"Sloane Mercer."
The voice was female. Cultured. British.
Victoria.
"Where's my mother?"
"Nearby." Victoria moved closer, and I could see her now—sharp features, cold eyes, a smile that didn't reach them. "First, we talk."
"We had a deal. Me for her."
"And we'll honor it. Eventually." She circled me slowly, like a predator assessing prey. "But first, I want to know something. Why did you come alone?"
"You said to."
"Yes, but I didn't think you'd actually listen." She stopped in front of me. "Where's Callum?"
"I don't know."
"Liar." Her hand moved fast, and suddenly there was a gun pressed against my temple. "Try again."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "I left him. He doesn't know I'm here."
"Interesting." The gun didn't move. "And why would you do that?"
"Because you said come alone."
"No one is that obedient." Her eyes narrowed. "Unless—ah. You're planning something. Some heroic rescue attempt, perhaps? Callum waiting in the wings, ready to swoop in and save the day?"
"No."
"Then you're just stupid." She lowered the gun, and I could breathe again. "Disappointing. I expected more from Evelyn's daughter."
"Where is she?"
"Patience, darling." Victoria pulled out her phone, typed something. "She'll be here soon. Along with—"
Headlights cut through the darkness.
A car pulled onto the pier, moving slowly. It stopped twenty feet away, and the driver's door opened.
Callum stepped out.
My stomach dropped. "No."
"Yes." Victoria's smile widened. "Did you really think I wouldn't have him followed? That I wouldn't know the moment he left his apartment?"
Callum moved toward us, hands raised. "Let them go, Victoria."
"Or what?" She raised the gun again, this time pointed at him. "You'll stop me? You couldn't stop me seven years ago, and you can't stop me now."
"Seven years ago?" I looked between them. "What is she talking about?"
Callum's expression went carefully blank. "Nothing."
"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Victoria laughed. "How delicious. Shall I, or would you like to do the honors?"
"Victoria—"
"Seven years ago, Callum and I were engaged." She said it casually, like she was discussing the weather. "Until he decided he'd rather destroy my family's company than marry me."
The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.
"That's not—" I looked at Callum. "Tell me she's lying."
He didn't.
"Oh, this is better than I hoped." Victoria moved closer to me, gun still trained on Callum. "He didn't tell you he was engaged to me. Didn't tell you that everything—absolutely everything—between our families started because he couldn't handle the fact that I was smarter, more ruthless, better at the game than he'd ever be."
"That's not what happened," Callum said quietly.
"Isn't it?" Victoria's voice hardened. "You broke our engagement, destroyed my father's company, and then had the audacity to act like you were the victim."
"Your father was laundering money for the Russian mob."
"And you were too weak to look the other way." She turned back to me. "So you see, Sloane, this isn't really about you at all. It's about him. It's always been about him."
My mind was reeling, trying to process. "Then why take my mother?"
"Because she helped him." Victoria's smile turned cruel. "Because seven years ago, when Callum needed evidence against my father, Evelyn Mercer provided it. And now—"
A sound from the warehouse behind us. Footsteps, multiple sets.
Victoria's expression shifted. "What—"
The warehouse doors burst open, and suddenly there were people everywhere—men in tactical gear, weapons drawn, shouting commands I couldn't process.
Callum lunged for me, pulling me down as gunfire erupted.
I hit the wooden planks hard, his body covering mine, and all I could think was that this was it, this was how it ended—
The shooting stopped.
Silence, broken only by the sound of water and my own ragged breathing.
Callum pulled back, checking me for injuries. "Are you hurt?"
"No. What—who—"
"FBI." He helped me to my feet. "I called them before I left the apartment."
"You—" I stared at him. "You knew I'd run."
"I know you." His hand cupped my face. "I know you'd sacrifice yourself without hesitation. So I made sure you wouldn't have to."
Victoria was on the ground, hands zip-tied behind her back, surrounded by agents. She was screaming something about lawyers and diplomatic immunity, but no one was listening.
"My mother," I said. "Where's my mother?"
One of the agents approached. "We found her. Warehouse two, tied up but alive. Paramedics are with her now."
Relief hit so hard I almost collapsed. Callum's arm around my waist was the only thing keeping me upright.
"She's okay?"
"Bruised, dehydrated, but she'll be fine." The agent looked at Callum. "Thanks for the tip. We've been trying to nail Victoria Hargrave for years."
Callum nodded, and the agent walked away.
I turned to face him. "You were engaged to her."
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to mention that?"
"It was a long time ago."
"It's relevant now."
"I know." He looked exhausted suddenly, all the careful control stripped away. "I know, and I'm sorry. I should have told you."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because—" He stopped, jaw working. "Because I didn't want you to think this was about revenge. Didn't want you to question whether I was helping you or just using you to get back at her."
"And which is it?"
"Both." The admission came quiet, almost reluctant. "At first, maybe it was about Victoria. About finally making her pay for what she did. But then I met you, and—"
"And what?"
"And the ground shifted beneath us." His hand found mine, fingers lacing together. "You changed everything."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this—us—was real and not just another manipulation in a long line of them.
But I'd been lied to by everyone I trusted. My mother, Callum, even myself.
"I need to see her," I said. "My mother. I need—"
"I know." He squeezed my hand. "Come on."
We walked toward the warehouse, and I tried not to think about all the questions I still had, all the secrets that were probably still buried.
Tried not to think about the fact that Callum had been engaged to the woman who'd just tried to kill us.
Tried not to think about what that meant for whatever this thing between us was.
The warehouse doors stood open, light spilling out into the darkness.
I could see my mother inside, sitting on a gurney, a paramedic checking her vitals. She looked small, fragile in a way I'd never seen before.
She looked up as we approached, and her eyes met mine.
"Sloane—"
I ran to her, and she pulled me into a hug that smelled like blood and fear and the perfume she'd worn since I was a child.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay. You're okay. That's all that matters."
She pulled back, hands framing my face. "There's something I need to tell you. Something about your father—"
"Mrs. Mercer." One of the FBI agents approached. "We need to ask you some questions."
"Of course." My mother stood, wavering slightly. "But first—Sloane, your father isn't dead."
The words didn't register. Couldn't register.
"What?"
"He's alive. He's been alive this whole time, and he's—"
The agent's radio crackled. "We've got a situation. Suspect escaped custody. Victoria Hargrave is—"
Gunfire erupted from somewhere outside.
Callum grabbed my arm, pulling me down as the warehouse windows shattered.
And through the broken glass, I saw her.
Victoria, blood streaming from a head wound, gun raised.
Aimed directly at my mother.
"No—"
The shot rang out, impossibly loud in the enclosed space.
My mother fell.
And the world