POV: Amber Hayes
Dante drives like he prosecutes—fast, precise, and terrifying.
We've been silent for ten minutes. The city blurs past the windows. Every red light he runs makes my heart jump. Every sharp turn throws me against the door.
"Where are we going?" I ask for the third time.
"Somewhere safe." His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Somewhere they can't watch you."
"They already know where I live. They sent that message—"
"Which is why we're not going to your apartment." He takes a corner so hard the tires scream. "They're watching. They know you talked to me. They know you're a threat."
"I'm not a threat. I'm just—"
"You stopped a murder tonight." He cuts me off, voice sharp. "You exposed their plan. You made them look fallible. That makes you the biggest threat they've ever faced."
The words sink in slowly, like poison. I've spent eight months being nobody. Invisible. Irrelevant. The idea that I'm suddenly dangerous to anyone feels impossible.
But the message on my phone says otherwise.
We pull into an underground parking garage. Expensive cars gleam under fluorescent lights. Dante parks in a spot marked "Reserved—Penthouse" and kills the engine.
"Out," he says.
I follow him to a private elevator. He scans a keycard. The doors open with a soft chime that sounds like money.
"Is this your building?"
"Yes." The elevator rises smoothly, counting floors. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
"You're taking me to your apartment?"
"Penthouse. And yes." He doesn't look at me. "Nobody gets in without clearance. Security cameras on every floor. Armed guards in the lobby. If someone tries to come for you, they'll have to go through me first."
The doors open into a space that makes my entire apartment look like a closet. Floor-to-ceiling windows show San Francisco glittering below like scattered diamonds. Modern furniture that probably costs more than I've earned in my entire life. Everything clean, expensive, and completely impersonal.
Like a hotel room for someone who never stays anywhere long enough to call it home.
"Sit," Dante says, gesturing to a leather couch.
I sit. My bare feet look ridiculous on his pristine white carpet.
He disappears into another room and returns with a bottle of water and a first-aid kit. Sets them on the coffee table in front of me.
"Your feet are bleeding. You ran through the gala barefoot."
I look down. He's right. Small cuts from the marble stairs, nothing serious, but leaving tiny red marks on his perfect carpet. Shame burns through me.
"I'll clean it up—"
"Drink." He points at the water bottle. "Then we talk."
I drink because my throat feels like sandpaper. The cold water is the best thing I've tasted in hours.
Dante sits across from me in a leather chair, elbows on his knees, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.
"Tell me everything," he says. "From the beginning. And this time, I'm actually listening."
So I tell him. All of it.
The first night I heard voices through impossible walls. How they discussed Marcus Chen's murder in perfect detail. How I thought I was losing my mind—maybe I was, after everything that happened with the fake article. How the voices kept coming back, always at 3:47 AM, always planning crimes that later came true.
I tell him about my journal. Fourteen predictions—now fifteen. About recording them and hearing nothing but silence. About tonight, knowing Richard Huang would die and not being able to live with myself if I didn't try to stop it.
Dante listens without interrupting. His face is a mask, revealing nothing.
When I finish, silence fills the penthouse like a physical weight.
Then he pulls out his tablet and shows me a file.
"Julie Marks," he says. "The woman in red at the gala. After you stopped her, she completely broke down. Confessed everything to the police." He swipes through photos. "Three weeks ago, she received an anonymous call. A distorted voice told her they had proof of her affair with Richard Huang. They threatened to send it to her husband, to the press, to destroy her life—unless she did exactly what they said."
My stomach twists. "They told her to kill him."
"They gave her detailed instructions. When. Where. How to make it look like an accident. They told her she'd be recorded during the act—insurance to make sure she couldn't back out." His eyes are ice chips. "Someone is blackmailing people into committing murders, then using their crimes as leverage to control them."
"That's sick."
"That's organized." He sets the tablet down. "This isn't one killer. It's a network. Multiple people planning, coordinating, executing crimes with military precision. And someone—you—started hearing their conversations."
"But how? Why me?"
"I don't know yet." He stands, paces to the window. The city lights cast shadows across his face. "But here's what I do know. Six tech executives have died in the last three months. All ruled accidents or suicides. All connected to major companies—biotech, AI development, financial software. The FBI suspects industrial espionage leading to murder."
"You think someone's killing executives to steal company secrets?"
"I think someone's building an empire on corpses and blackmail." He turns to face me. "And you're hearing them plan it. Which means one of three things." He counts on his fingers. "One: you're part of their organization, playing innocent to throw off investigation. Two: you're legitimately hearing something through means I don't understand—technology, psychic ability, doesn't matter what we call it. Three: you're running the most elaborate con I've ever seen, using public information and lucky guesses to make yourself seem valuable."
Each option feels like a trap. "Which one do you believe?"
"I don't believe anything yet." He crosses his arms. "But I'm going to find out. You're going to work with me. Every time you hear voices, you call me immediately. We document everything. We build a profile of how they operate. And we catch them."
"That's not a request."
"No. It's the deal that keeps you out of prison." His smile is sharp. "Because right now, you're either a witness or an accomplice. Help me prove which one, or I'll assume the worst."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "You're blackmailing me into helping you? How is that different from what they're doing to Julie?"
"Because I'm not asking you to kill anyone." His voice drops, dangerous. "I'm asking you to help stop killers. But if you'd rather take your chances with a jury, I can arrange that."
We stare at each other across his expensive penthouse. Two people who should be enemies, forced into an impossible partnership by circumstances neither of us chose.
"Why do you even care?" I ask quietly. "You should want me to suffer. I destroyed your reputation. I almost ended your career. Why not just let me go down for this?"
Something flickers in his expression. For a moment, the ice cracks.
"Because eight months ago, I was investigating Brandon Ashford's company for human trafficking," he says. "I had evidence. Witnesses. Everything I needed to bring down a major operation. Then your article dropped, I got suspended, and all my evidence mysteriously disappeared. My witnesses recanted. My case fell apart."
The room tilts. "You think... you think my article was timed to stop your investigation?"
"I know it was." His jaw tightens. "Someone fed you that story specifically to destroy my credibility at the exact moment I was about to expose them. You were used, Amber. We both were."
The pieces click together with horrible clarity. "Brandon set me up. He knew I'd write the article if I thought the evidence was real. He knew it would take you down and save his company."
"And now he's free to continue trafficking while I rebuild my reputation." Dante's hands curl into fists. "So yes, I have every reason to hate you. But I have more reason to hate the people who used us both. And if you're hearing them plan more crimes, then you're my best shot at finally taking them down."
I should feel manipulated. Used again. But instead, I feel something unexpected: understanding.
We're both victims of the same conspiracy. Both destroyed by people we trusted. Both trying to claw our way back from ruin.
"Okay," I say. "I'll help you."
"Good." He pulls out his phone. "We start tomorrow. Tonight, you stay here. Guest room is down the hall. Lock the door if it makes you feel safer."
"You're letting me stay here?"
"They know where you live. They know you talked to me. Your apartment isn't safe." He heads toward what must be his bedroom. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out how you're hearing them."
He's almost to his door when I say, "Dante?"
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"Why did you believe me? At the police station, you could have just charged me with something. But you didn't. Why?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then, quietly: "Because I saw your face when you saved Richard Huang. Terror and determination and absolute certainty. That's not the face of a con artist or a killer." He looks back at me, and his ice-blue eyes are softer than I've ever seen them. "That's the face of someone trying to do the right thing, even when everyone thinks she's crazy."
Then he's gone, his bedroom door closing with a soft click.
I sit alone in his penthouse, surrounded by luxury I can't afford and protection I don't deserve, and try to process everything that just happened.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number. Again.
Every instinct screams not to look. But I can't help myself.
A video file downloads. Opens automatically.
Hospital hallway. Oncology ward. I recognize it immediately—Mission General, where Lily is.
The camera pans down the corridor. Stops at a room number. Lily's room number.
The door is slightly open. Through the gap, I see my sister sleeping peacefully, IV in her arm, completely vulnerable.
A hand reaches into frame. Gloved. Holding a syringe filled with something that definitely isn't medicine.
The video cuts to black.
Text appears:
"She dies tomorrow unless you disappear. Leave Cross. Stop investigating. Forget everything you heard. Or your sister pays the price. You have 12 hours. Choose wisely. —The Boss"
My hands shake so hard I drop the phone.
Dante's door flies open. He must have heard something—my gasp, maybe, or the clatter of my phone hitting the floor.
"What happened?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can only point at the phone.
He picks it up. Watches the video. His face goes from concerned to absolutely murderous.
"Call the hospital," he snaps. "Now. Tell them to lock down your sister's room. No one in or out except her primary doctor and nurses you personally verify."
I'm already dialing with shaking hands. The night nurse answers.
"This is Amber Hayes, Lily's sister. I need you to check her room right now. Please."
"Ms. Hayes, it's 2 AM. Your sister is sleeping—"
"Check. Her. Room." My voice cracks. "Please."
I hear rustling. Footsteps. A door opening.
Then screaming.
"Security! Code blue! We need security in room 417 immediately!"
The phone goes dead.
I stare at Dante, and he stares back, and we both know the same thing:
The war just started.
And they fired the first shot at the only person in the world I can't afford to lose.