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I didn’t want to let go.

But I had to.

Elena is better with Sabrina. Safer.

I’ll always watch from afar as Sam has promised he’ll be my eyes, ears, and her protector.

I feel tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.

Later that day, when I was looking at the secret picture I had taken of my little girl, I found a message that had been sent from my phone. A message that I didn’t send to Gavriil.

‘This has to stop. Running is the only hope.’

Clyde swears he didn’t send it, and it was not more than fifteen to twenty minutes that Clyde got a phone call from Sam to ditch our burner phones immediately, and we were told that Gavriil and Irina were dead—a car bomb.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

I just felt… hollow.

A knock at the door jerks me back to the present.

“Tara?” Clyde’s voice calls through the closed door. “I’ve got your meds for the milk and bleeding.”

“Come in,” I call out. Clyde cracks the door and places the bottle on my dresser. He doesn’t get embarrassed, not about this kind of thing. He’s been solid. Steady. Kind. “Thanks.”

“I have to get to the store, I’ve just realized we’re low on supplies,” Clyde tells me. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Burger and fries.”

He laughs. “Homemade patties. Mushroom buns. Sweet potato fries.”

I groan. “Then at least add some salad.”

“Of course, I’ll even throw in some boiled eggs.” He grins.

“Fancy.”

Clyde chuckles. “I’ll check everything’s locked before I leave. I won’t be long.”

“Be safe,” I call as he backs out of my room and closes the door.

I’m alone again.

I sit for a few minutes, then lie back on the bed. The journal still hums under my skin, so I reopen it and flip to the last few pages.

Messages had come in on the burner phone Clyde gave me. One I didn’t send. Supposedly from me to Gavriil. And that last message just before Gavriil and Irina were killed plays through my mind again.

This has to stop. Running is the only hope.

I didn’t write the message, and Clyde didn’t write it. To be fair, I would’ve seen him do it as we’d been together for hours in the car. Although we’d made a rest stop around the time it was sent from my phone. Clyde thought my phone was spoofed. But even so if it was how the fuck did it appear on my phone as it looked like the message came from me.

So who the fuck sent it?

I’m still trying to untangle that thought when a sound cuts through the silence.

Footsteps.

I go quiet and listen to their pattern. They are not Clyde’s, they are too heavy.