Chapter 8

By the time I shove open the stairwell door, my hands are shaking so hard I almost miss the rail. Concrete. Metal. Fluorescent hum. No people, no crowd—just Noah, halfway down the flight, one hand on the rail, like he knew I’d chase him. His mouth starts to move. “Avery—” “What the hell was that?” My voice ricochets off the cement, too loud, too raw. “The image. Me. Strapped to that chair. Where did you see it?” He freezes. For half a heartbeat his face is blank, but his...