Took You Long Enough

The security door clicked. Key turned.

I drifted near the ceiling, watching Delia Foster storm into my old apartment, clutching some fake agreement.

She swatted at the dusty air, heels hitting hard. "William Wright, get your ass out here! Harlan's about to lose his license and you're still hiding?"

I laughed—dry and bitter.

Since that malpractice mess, we were done.

Now she's back, trying to pin Harlan's screw-up on me again.

Harlan Sloane. Her first love.

Guess some bonds really do stand the test of time.

Delia paced twice, eyes scanning the dust-covered couch and cobwebbed windowsill. Her lip curled. "What, you trying to vanish off the map? Where the hell does a disgraced ex-doctor even hide?

"Harlan just texted—police are opening an investigation. You want him in prison? I'm giving you ten seconds. Get out here!"

I watched her impatient face. Five years, and nothing had changed—still acting like the world owed her.

Yeah, count all you want, Delia.

I wasn't showing.

Because I was already dead.

"William! Do you hear me? Can't you just do me this one favor?"

She spun and kicked the bedroom door open. It hit the wall hard.

Still empty inside.

Clicking her tongue, she tore through the place like I was playing hide-and-seek in the dust.

Still nothing.

Then it hit her.

No one lived here.

She muttered something ugly, slammed the door, and stomped out.

Downstairs, the corner store door slammed open. Delia grabbed Mr. Parker, the owner, by the sleeve. "You seen William? Third-floor guy."

He blinked, wiped grease off his hands. "William? He's been dead five years."

Delia froze, then gave a sharp laugh. "Yeah, right. He's not the dying type."

"Wish I was joking." He nodded toward the alley. "Family of that malpractice case found him. Stabbed him up bad. Didn't make it to the ER. You his what?"

His calm tone threw her.

Her brows pulled tight, face twisting—half shock, half something that actually hurt.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Harlan.

[Forget it, Delia. William probably still resents me. He'll dodge it. Don't stress over me. If prison's where I'm headed, so be it. You need to focus on yourself.]

And just like that, she decided I'd pulled a Houdini. Faked my death.

Her hands shook as she typed:

[How dare he refuse? After all the money I gave him, he owes us! Don't worry—I'll drag him back. I'm not letting anything happen to you!]

Message sent. She looked up, full-on glaring at Mr. Parker.

"Save it. He's hiding. Did he pay you off?"

Mr. Parker sighed. "You think I'd joke about something like this? It was on the news..."

"Like I believe the news?" Her voice climbed.

She stepped closer, eyes dark. "Tell him this—he's got three days. If he doesn't show, I'm cutting off his sister's cancer treatment."

Mr. Parker opened his mouth, probably to drop some truth, but she cut him off, swatting the air.

"Spare me. He either shows, or start planning her funeral."

She spun and left. Store door slammed like a gunshot.

Mr. Parker watched her go, shaking his head.

"What sister?" he muttered. "She died years ago... couldn't afford treatment."

I hovered nearby, staring at the bottle she'd kicked aside.

Even dead, disappointment still hits like a punch to the gut.

That money never reached me.

While Raine lay dying, Harlan burned it on shiny new gear.

And while I bled out in that alley, Delia?

She was at a medical seminar—with him.

Now she's tossing a dead girl's name like it's still leverage.