Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Can I see the slips?” I ask. “Just—outside?”
Blair considers. “There’s a public boardwalk along the east side. Past the gate.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, and angle left.
Outside, the wind ramps up. Boats clack against their cleats. Seagulls perform a crime spree overhead. Along the boardwalk, I pass a series of plaques with donors’ names etched in brass. I run my finger over each one like a diviner, not sure what I’m hoping to feel.
Third plaque from the gate: NEREUS MARINE LLC – Legacy Slip D4. An anchor engraved beneath the name.
Nereus. Mythology’s old sea god. The anchor stitches everything together in my head and then unravels all at once. I glance down the slips. At D4, a sleek, black-and-white motor yacht rocks like a sleeping beast. No one onboard. A security camera under the awning hums and swivels, bored and watchful.
“Okay, Nico,” I whisper. “Do your worst.”
I take a photo of the plaque and the boat, feeling like a tourist with malice. On my way back, a car eases out of the garage ramp—matte black, low and quiet. It idles by the curb, waiting for an opening. A sticker on the windshield: Marina Club. License plate: NRS-0417. I snap a picture, adrenaline making my fingers a fraction too slow. The photo is fuzzy, but legible enough.
My phone buzzes as I walk away.
Unknown: Looking for Nico? Wrong place to hunt, bright girl.
The world tips like the deck of a ship. I stop in the shadow of a pillar, thumb trembling above the keyboard.
Who is this?
Three dots. Then:
Unknown: Careful. Some ghosts don’t like being chased.
“Cool,” I whisper to the river. “Cool-cool-cool.”
I should send that screenshot to Arrow. The team. It would be the smart play. But the memory of spyware crawls under my skin like ants. The ache in my chest tells me I’m safer with my walls up than with my door open.
I forward the text to a number that isn’t Arrow’s.
To: Render — Got a creep text. Can you spoof this number’s carrier?
(screenshot attached)
A beat. Then Render’s reply, all business:
Render: On it. Stay in public places. Don’t be a hero without backup, Final Girl.
I smile despite the ice-water in my veins.
The sky bruises toward late afternoon. I walk, on purpose, through crowded streets—past the noodle shop, the vintage store with the mannequin that always looks like it’s judging you, and then past the quiet bookshop that I always tell myself that one day I’ll stop in there to read. My phone buzzes again. For half a second I think it’s Unknown Creep. It’s not.
Arrow 4:12 p.m. You okay?
I stare at the bubbles that bloom and break as he edits, re-edits, deletes. Another text:
Arrow 4:14 p.m. You don’t have to answer. Just…please don’t turn everything off. Doors. Cameras. Me.
I stop at a crosswalk and type a dozen responses in my head.
I turned you off because I needed to hear my own thoughts.
You don’t get to be sad about the walls you made me build.
I miss you so much it’s stupid.
I put the phone away without sending any of them. The light changes. Cars crawl. A siren wails two blocks over like a wolf.
Back home, I lock the door and slide the chain because habits comfort more than cameras. I set the Moleskine on the counter and make a list with the confidence of a woman who has no idea what she’s doing:
Run plate NRS-0417 (find a cop who still likes me? Huxley?).
Stake out Marina Club public boardwalk at dusk. (Bring puffer jacket + patience + pepper spray + portable charger.)
Ask Render to triangulate Unknown number location (is this even a thing?).
Check Arby’s Dropbox for any files titled “N,” “Nico,” or emoji-coded (she did that when she thought she was clever).
Don’t text Arrow. (Try. Fail. Try again.)
I take my phone to the couch and open Arby’s Dropbox. Search: “Nico.” Nothing. Search: “N.” Too many. I add “Atlas,” “Marina,” “matchbook,” “smoked honey.” One ping: a photo of my hand clinking a coupe glass, captioned in her private shorthand: BG. Bright girl. I swallow a laugh that breaks halfway out of me and sounds like a sob.
The apartment hums. The Ring is dark. The dead zone makes everything feel both vulnerable and quiet. I sit there until the streetlights flicker alive and my resolve hardens into something that feels like purpose.
I put on my puffer and laced boots and slide pepper spray into my pocket. Before I step out, I look at the black rectangle of the Ring where the blue light used to blink.
“I’ll turn you back on,” I tell it, like I’m making a promise to a friend. “When I can do it because I want to, not because he tells me to.”
My phone buzzes one last time. Render:
Render: Unknown = prepaid. Last ping near river. Burner likely tossed. Also: Nereus Marine has two LLCs. Both list registered agent: Nicolas Armand. Boom.