Chapter 15 The Rooftop Warning
SCARLETT
The city lights look like a field of shattered stars. From thirty stories up, every rooftop and alley glows with its own secret pulse, and I can’t stop scanning for the flicker of movement that will tell me where he’s hiding.
My phone is still in my hand, the single text burning against the screen: Nice view.
Damien leans over my shoulder. “When did it come through?”
“Thirty seconds ago.” My voice is thinner than I want it to be.
He grabs his own phone, thumbs flying across the screen. “I’ll get Reilly on the line. Don’t move away from the window.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he’s watching, I want him to think we’re not scared.”
The problem is, I am scared so much that my hands tremble. I clench them into fists until the shaking stops.
Mom emerges from the bedroom, hair mussed from sleep. “What happened?”
I show her the text. Her face drains of color.
Damien covers the phone’s mouthpiece. “Reilly’s dispatching units to every rooftop within three blocks. We need to stay put.”
Mom grips the doorframe. “He’s that close?”
“Close enough to see this window,” Damien says. “But he wants us to know. That’s part of the game.”
I pull the curtains tight, but it doesn’t ease the sensation of being watched. It’s like the city itself has eyes.
Within minutes, sirens slice the night. Blue and red strobes reflect off the glass like ghostly fireworks.
Damien speaks with Reilly in low tones, then pockets his phone. “Units are sweeping the adjacent buildings. We’re on lockdown until sunrise.”
Mom sinks onto the couch. “We can’t live like this forever.”
“No,” Damien agrees. “But tonight we wait.”
The hours stretch. I try to read, to sip tea, to breathe normally. Every sound from the street below a honk, a shout makes me flinch.
Around 3 a.m., a new message arrives.
You look tired.
No number. No trace.
My skin crawls.
Reilly and two officers arrive before dawn, faces grim.
“We found fresh footprints on the roof of the building across the street,” he says. “Size eleven, heavy boots. Whoever it was, he’s good at avoiding cameras. But he left us a little present.”
From his coat pocket, Reilly pulls a small black card.
My name is scrawled across it in silver ink. Just my first name.
Scarlett.
I swallow hard. “Where was it?”
“Taped to the edge of the roof. Facing this apartment.”
Mom’s breath catches. Damien’s jaw tightens.
Reilly continues, “He’s escalating. He wants control through fear. But we’re closing in—he slipped up leaving this.”
It doesn’t feel like a slip. It feels like a promise.
After the police leave, the three of us sit at the kitchen island. The early light makes the apartment look sterile, like a set from a dream.
“I can’t keep reacting,” I say finally. “I need to know why he’s after me. This isn’t random.”
Mom hesitates. “Scarlett, your father’s work—”
“I know about the smuggling,” I interrupt. “But what else? What are you not telling me?”
She exchanges a look with Damien, something heavy passing between them.
“Your father kept a second safe,” Mom says at last. “One I never opened. It’s in the old office downtown. I thought it was empty, but… maybe it isn’t.”
Damien nods slowly. “If Kade’s after something specific, that might be it.”
A cold certainty settles in me. “Then we need to get there before he does.”
Reilly hates the idea but finally agrees, sending two unmarked cars as escort. The old office building feels like stepping back into my childhood the faded blue carpet, the faint scent of machine oil.
The hidden safe sits behind a false panel in Dad’s desk. The combination, unbelievably, is my birthday.
Inside are three items:
A leather-bound journal.
A USB drive.
A single envelope marked For Scarlett.
My hands shake as I slide the letter free.
My Scarlett, the note begins, in my father’s bold, slanted handwriting.
If you’re reading this, it means the storm has reached you. I made choices that put us all in danger. The men I exposed won’t stop until every thread is burned. Inside the journal is everything names, routes, proof. Keep it hidden. Trust no one completely, not even the ones you love. I’m sorry.
I read it twice, three times. The words are a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed.
Damien examines the USB drive. “This could blow the rest of the ring wide open,” he murmurs.
Reilly’s eyes narrow. “It also makes you a target. If Kade knows you have this…”
“He already does,” I finish. “That’s why he’s coming.”
We transfer the contents to evidence bags, but a flicker of motion at the end of the hall freezes me.
A figure, hooded, watching.
“Kade!” Damien shouts, sprinting forward.
The figure bolts. Chaos erupts footsteps pounding, doors slamming. I duck behind a file cabinet as Reilly and his officers race after Damien.
Gunfire cracks once, twice deafening in the narrow hall.
Then silence.
When I finally step out, the corridor is empty.
Reilly returns a minute later, breathless. “He escaped through the stairwell. Again.”
But this time, he left something behind: a single playing card on the floor, the Queen of Hearts marked with a slash of red paint.
Back at the apartment, the city hums like nothing happened. Mom clutches the journal as if it’s life itself.
Damien stands near the window, every muscle coiled. “He’s tightening the circle,” he says quietly. “Next time, he won’t just watch.”
I sink onto the couch, the Queen of Hearts burning in my mind. The message is clear:
The game isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
The apartment feels smaller than it ever has, as if the walls have shifted a few inches inward while we were gone. Morning sunlight pools across the floor, but it does nothing to chase away the chill clinging to my skin.
Damien hasn’t moved from the window. He stands so still that, for a second, I think he’s turned to stone. His profile is a hard line against the pale sky, jaw locked, eyes scanning the neighboring rooftops like a hawk searching for prey.
“You should sit,” I whisper.
He shakes his head without looking at me. “If I sit, I might stop watching.”
Mom lowers herself onto the arm of the couch, still clutching Dad’s journal. Her knuckles are white, her breathing shallow. “We should leave the city. Tonight.”
“And go where?” Damien finally turns. His gaze is sharp, but there’s something under it something that makes me think he’s more afraid than he’ll ever admit. “Kade doesn’t care about zip codes. He cares about what we know.”
“What I know,” I correct. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “This is about me.”
Mom starts to protest, but I hold up a hand. “Dad left this for me. If Kade wants it, he thinks I have answers. Maybe I do.”
Damien crosses the room in two strides. “Don’t start thinking you can handle this alone.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “But I’m done hiding.”
I open the journal. The leather creaks, releasing a faint smell of smoke and ink. Pages of neat handwriting fill the book dates, names, ports, shipment numbers. A map is folded between two entries, the paper brittle with age. Red Xs mark routes across the Atlantic.
Mom leans closer. “These are…smuggling lanes?”
“And more,” I murmur, pointing to a section labeled Ghost Harbor. Underneath, a series of coordinates are circled in black. A note beside them reads: Final proof keep separate.
“Coordinates off the coast,” Damien says. “Could be a meeting point. Or a drop site.”
“Or a graveyard,” I add.
We fall into a heavy silence. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere below.
My phone buzzes, jolting us. A new text glows on the screen.
Nice catch.
Just two words. No number.
Damien snatches the phone, jaw tightening. “He’s inside the net. He knows we found the journal.”
Mom’s breath hitches. “How could he know that fast?”
Damien’s eyes meet mine. “Because he’s closer than we think.”
I fight the urge to look toward the window. The skyline beyond the glass is a grid of gleaming metal and morning haze, but every shadow feels like a figure waiting to step forward.
Reilly calls moments later. His voice is brisk but edged with frustration. “We’ve sealed the building perimeter. Nothing on the cameras. Whoever this guy is, he’s a ghost.”
“A ghost with perfect timing,” I say. “He just texted me again.”
A pause. “Stay inside. Don’t open the door for anyone who doesn’t announce themselves. I’m sending two plainclothes officers to the hallway.”
Damien ends the call and pockets the phone. “We’ll hold until we have a plan.”
Mom exhales shakily. “What if he never stops?”
I reach over and cover her hand with mine. “Then we stop him.”
The words taste like iron part promise, part challenge.
Hours pass. We move around the apartment like planets in separate orbits. Damien keeps a watch by the window. Mom dozes on the couch, the journal clutched to her chest. I sit at the kitchen island, eyes fixed on the USB drive, its silver surface catching the light.
I imagine what it holds: photos, financial trails, secrets powerful enough to ruin men who think they’re untouchable. Secrets worth killing for.
My father died for this.
And now it’s mine.
Close to dusk, the buzzer sounds.
All three of us jump.
Damien gestures for silence, then lifts the intercom. “Who is it?”
Static crackles, followed by a male voice. “Building security. Routine check.”
Reilly didn’t mention a check. My pulse stutters.
Damien presses the button again. “Name?”
The silence stretches, too long.
Then a low chuckle filters through the speaker soft, mocking.
Not security.
Damien swears under his breath. He grabs his sidearm and signals for Mom to move back. I pull her behind the counter, heart hammering.
The speaker goes dead.
We wait. Minutes drag. No footsteps in the hall. No knock. Nothing.
Finally Damien checks the peephole. The corridor is empty.
Night falls heavy and dark. Reilly’s officers arrive and sweep the hallway, finding no one and nothing. Still, the sense of being hunted presses against my skin like a second heartbeat.
Damien closes the door after the officers leave and locks every bolt. “He’s testing us. Seeing how we react.”
I nod, but inside I’m certain of something else: this isn’t just a test.
It’s a countdown.
I curl up in the armchair and pull the journal onto my lap. My father’s words run through me like a quiet current: Trust no one completely, not even the ones you love.
I glance toward Damien. He catches my eye and offers a small, steadying nod.
I want to believe he’s safe. I want to believe we all are.
But outside, somewhere in the labyrinth of rooftops and neon-lit alleys, Kade is waiting patiently, clever, and closer than the dark itself.