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“What's bothering me,” I pressed, unwilling to let him retreat behind his wall of calm detachment, “is that you seem to recognize this. It's triggering something for you.”

Cade's fingers paused briefly on the keyboard before resuming their steady typing. “I keep getting flashes. Not memories exactly, but feelings. Like déjà vu, but stronger.” He frowned slightly. “This burning . . . it feels like a punishment. For witnesses. People who saw things they weren't supposed to see.”

“And you think what—some demon is hunting people who've witnessed something?” I moved to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder at the grainy security footage now playing on his screen.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “Or something else that doesn't want to be seen.”

The unspoken concern hung heavily between us. Since Cade had returned from the pit, changed in ways we still didn't fully understand, I'd wondered what exactly had come back with him.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said softly, still not looking away from the screen. “And I understand why. But it's not connected to me, Sean.”

“Never said it was,” I replied, though the thought had fleetingly crossed my mind. Not seriously, not really, but in that dark corner where worst fears take root.

“You didn't have to,” Cade said simply.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Look, I know you're not involved in this. But I also know there's something about this case that's setting off alarm bells for you. And if you're getting these . . . impressions, then we need to figure out what they mean. You can see why that might make me a wee bit concerned.”

Cade finally turned to face me, his expression uncharacteristically open. “I'm not hiding things to be difficult. These impressions . . . they feel dangerous. Like picking at a scab that's better left alone. I'm trying to protect us both.”

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. It was the most emotionally honest he'd been since his return, a glimpse of the old Cade beneath the mechanical precision of his new self.

“I get that,” I said, softening my tone. “But we can't hunt this thing effectively if we're ignoring valuable insights. Even if they're just impressions.”

Cade held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, decision made. “Whatever this is, it's targeting the eyes specifically. Not just to kill, but to . . . erase something. Knowledge, memories, something the victim saw that they weren't supposed to.”

“So our victim saw something he shouldn't have,” I concluded, focusing back on the case. “Question is, what?”

Cade was quiet for a moment, staring at the frozen frame on his laptop screen. “Before the gate, I used to think attachments were what kept me human,” he said finally, his voice distant.“The connections to other people, the things I cared about. They were anchors.” He paused, something painful flickering across his features. “I can remember feeling that way, but I can't . . . I can't access it anymore. Those feelings, those connections—they feel like they belong to someone else.”

The admission hit me like a physical blow. I'd suspected something like this, but hearing him say it so matter-of-factly made it real in a way that observation couldn't.

“Cade . . .” I started, not sure what to say.

“I'm telling you this because whatever we're hunting, it's doing something similar. Taking something essential from its victims. Not just their lives, but their ability to bear witness. And I recognize that kind of theft.”

The weight of his words settled between us, heavy with implication. Whatever had happened to him in Hell, whatever had been taken or changed, it was more fundamental than I'd realized.

“We'll figure it out,” I said, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “Both the case and . . . the other thing. We'll figure it all out.”

Cade turned back to the laptop, the moment of vulnerability closing like a door. “For now, let's focus on what we can control. What killed Martin Reeves, and how to stop it from killing again.”

7

HOLLOW PRAYERS

CADE

Istared down at the half-eaten burger on my plate, surprised to find it already disappearing. My stomach growled again, demanding more. Strange. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this ravenous, like my body was desperately trying to make up for lost time. Like something inside me was hollow, demanding to be filled.

The greasy spoon diner buzzed with late-night energy around us—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the clatter of plates from the kitchen, sporadic bursts of laughter from the truckers at the counter. The smell of burnt coffee and grilled onions hung in the air, comfortingly familiar yet somehow foreign after . . . after wherever I'd been.

“Didn't think you'd be this hungry,” Sean remarked, watching me from across the booth with a hint of amusement in his eyes. The harsh lighting cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the new lines that hadn't been there six months ago. A small scar above his right eyebrow that I didn't recognize. Dark circles that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

I swallowed the bite in my mouth, reaching for a napkin to wipe away a smear of ketchup. “Didn't think I'd be back,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue, leaving an ashen taste behind.

I took another bite, barely tasting it now, just filling the void. The waitress swung by, coffee pot in hand, eyebrow raised in silent question. Sean nodded, pushing his mug forward.

“You want another shake, honey?” she asked me, pen poised over her pad.