Page 5

Wait.

I don’t hang my towel on the back of thedoor.I hang it on the rung by the tub so I can grab it when I shower.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. Was I not paying attention this morning? Or was someone…in here?

I open the door to the bathroom and call out. “Hello? Anyone there?” As if someone’s going to just magically appear out of thin air. Still, I wait for a reply, but when none comes, I don’t know what to do next.

Should I alert Cillian? I could call the McCarthys if things go south—if I’m in real trouble. But what would I even say?Someone moved my toothpaste and my towel? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but what if I’m not? Still, without better evidence, I can’t cry wolf. Not with that crowd.

I shake my head and walk to my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, narrowing my eyes and assessing it carefully.

Bed is made, cheap, cream-colored duvet straightened. Charging station lit up, ready for my devices, shades pulled evenly three-quarters of the way down. Not even a shoe out of place in here. Orange bottle of prescription sleep meds sitting on my nightstand right where I left them after I took tonight’s.

I strip out of my clothes and grab the sweats on my dresser. My eyes are so heavy. The meds continue to take effect, but something feels off. My eyes are heavier, my limbs like lead. The pills I take to sleep are usually more subtle than this. Right now, it feels as if my world is shifting.

I close my eyes and let sleep take me. But even in sleep, I dream of dark alleys, rain, footsteps… and a deep voice calling my real name.

Anissa Laurent.

No one has called methatin ages.

Anissa.

I crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

The blaring ring of my phone jolts me awake. My head pounds, and the air smells… off. For a moment, I startle. I sniff the air like a damn dog.

Has someone been in here?

I blink hard, and for a split second, I swear I see a shadow moving across the room.

"Who's there?" I yell into the darkness. But when I blink again, nothing’s there.

Shaking my head, I try to clear the fog as the phone rings on and on. I startle awake when I recognize the ringtone.

It’s The Undertaker’s. If I miss this…

My heart races.

I grab the phone and stab at the screen. I’m sick with nausea, thinking I’m too late.

“Hello?” My tongue feels too thick.

A pause before he says in a low, calm voice that still chills me to the bone. “That was a close one, lass." The unmistakable voice of The Undertaker—Keenan McCarthy’s eldest son. I shiver and squeeze my eyes shut, breathing a sigh of relief. If I’d missed a call fromhim…

"Yeah, well, your guy had me at the pub until two a.m., and I was finally sleeping." I feign nonchalance, but my hands are shaking.

"I heard about that," he says. "But you’re needed, lass. We have an urgent job at the wharf. I need you there in three hours. Can you do it?"

On the phone, he makes it sound like a request, but I know the truth. If I don’t go, they’ll drop me. No more protection. I’ll be exposed. If I refuse the job, I’ll have to run.

Again.

"What’s the job?" I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the ache in my skull to stop. I never get headaches. What the hell?

My gaze snaps to the corner of the room—another shadow in my peripheral vision. But when I look again, there’s nothing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?