Chapter 2

A commotion erupted outside the storage room. Footsteps scrambled in every direction, people dragging things, voices hissing "clean it up, hurry."

I pushed myself up, crawled to the iron door, and pressed my ear against it. Low voices drifted in from the hallway.

"Don brought a lot of people this time. Heard he's in a mood."

"When's he ever in a good mood? Been looking for someone for three years and still nothing—you'd be in a mood too."

"Who's he even looking for? What woman's worth all this trouble?"

"Beats me. Just don't cross him. Come on, let's go greet him."

Footsteps faded.

I clenched my fists in the dark. He was looking for me. Three years, and he was still looking.

Three years ago, he'd locked me in that seaside villa. Windows welded shut. Phone lines cut. Even the bathroom had a babysitter.

He said: "Olivia, you run, I catch. You run as many times as you want—I'll find you every single time."

I tried seven times. The first six, I only made it as far as the docks before they dragged me back. The seventh, I waited until he left for a meeting, used three months' worth of sleeping pills to knock out the guards, jumped a wall and cracked half my ribs, then crawled onto a seafood delivery truck. That was how I got out of that city.

New name. New passport. Three countries. Ended up in Italy.

And somehow, of all places, I ran into him in Chicago.

And now he was right there—at the end of that hallway.

I crouched in the corner, staring at the sliver of light creeping through the crack under the door. People passed by outside: footsteps, murmurs, the scratch of walkie-talkies. Then a voice cut through—lazy, unhurried, with that slight upward tilt at the end.

"The West Side accounts don't add up. Who reviewed them?"

"Don, that was me... I'll redo them right away."

"Redo?" A cold, clipped laugh. "You think this is a game? I want them fixed by tonight. If they're not—you're covering the difference yourself."

Footsteps moved away.

Caleb. I'd know that voice if I heard it in hell. Three years ago, when he had me pinned against the wall, that same voice had whispered in my ear: "Olivia. Don't leave me."

I couldn't wait here and die. I had to make him see me. Even if he locked me up again—it was still better than being buried alive in this place.

I scanned the storage room. A metal trash can sat in the corner, with half a shattered vase inside. I grabbed a shard and dragged it hard along the doorframe. Ceramic scraping metal—a sharp, piercing screech.

The footsteps outside stopped.

Someone cursed. "The hell was that?"

The storage door cracked open. A face appeared. "You looking for a beating—"

I slammed into him and slipped right through his arm.

The hallway exploded. "She's loose! That way—go, go!"

I ran barefoot, lungs burning. Around two corners. Hands grabbed at my collar—I wrenched forward, fabric tearing, and went sprawling across the floor at the end of the corridor. My knees scraped raw.

I looked up.

Through the open doorway, several black cars were parked in the courtyard. A cluster of men surrounded a stretched limousine. In the middle of them, Caleb was lighting a cigarette, the flame catching half his face.

I opened my mouth to call out. Only a broken gasp came out.

The man behind me caught up, clamped a hand over my mouth, and started dragging me back. "Bitch can still run—guess we didn't hit hard enough."

I bit down. Sunk my nails into his arm. He yelped and let go for half a second—and I screamed again toward the doorway. Still nothing. Just a rasp, barely audible.

Another man ran up, grabbed a glass ashtray from the hallway table, and brought it down on the back of my head.

Everything went red. The last thing I saw before I hit the ground—Caleb had glanced in my direction. But he didn't come over. He just turned to the man beside him, said something, and bent down into the car.

The door shut. The engine turned over.

Then—nothing but black.