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I should’ve sent someone else to take Morgan to my safe house. There was a list of people I trusted more than Harlen and I picked him. Chanel’s best friend was the only person she had left from her old life. I couldn’t stop questioning why I let my brother back into my life.

Everything I ever did was up for debate. I should’ve never made Teresa Protenza into a vampire. I should’ve never married her. I should’ve never introduced Teresa to my life and my family. And I should’ve never trusted my brother with someone that was so important to Chanel. The “should haves” piled up like the ash I was going to make of Teresa, Marisol and everyone that challenged and threatened my loved ones.

“Maybe the reception is bad up there in—” Chanel offered. She was trying to come up with a good reason for the radio silence.

“Cheboygan.”I said, trying to participate in the one-sided conversation.

“Yeah, you said it was near water.” Chanel stated. “That could be the reason, bad reception near water.”

“Where the hell is Cheboygan?” Donté asked.

“Northern Michigan is close to Canada.” I explained. “Harlen would’ve found a way to contact us.” I stopped pacing just long enough to run a hand through my unruly hair. “Something’s wrong.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Chanel clarified, and I was happy she was calmer than me.

I’d sent a dozen text messages. Called twenty times. There was no contact from Morgan or Harlen. I asked Natasha to track their cell phones, and she couldn’t get a location. Nothing.

The elevator pinged, and I stopped in my tracks.

“Maybe that’s Natasha with some news.” Chanel said. I wished I shared her optimism.

I left them both in the kitchen without saying a word. Natasha would call before she arrived. It could be Josh, maybe with an update. I needed to hear something. At this point, it didn’t matter if it was good or bad.

I was in the living room waiting for the elevator door to open. My fingers scratched at my chin as my impatience manifested itself in my stance.

The metal doors parted and Harlen was standing there, alone. His clothes looked wrinkled, and his hair was disheveled. There was a haunted look in his eyes that I didn’t have time to address.

I rushed toward him when he stepped out of the elevator. I was only inches from his face. “Where the fuck have you been?!” I demanded. “Where’s Morgan?”

The elevator doors closed and Harlen side stepped me and moved into the living space.

“Zand—” the traitor spoke, but I cut him off.

“Three days!” I shouted, moving closer until I was back in his face. “Three fucking days with no word! No call! Nothing! A simple text to let us know you were alive?”

Hearing the commotion, Chanel and Donté had come around the partial wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. I glanced over at Donté, who was holding his glass of blood, and Chanel, who was standing beside him.

“Harlen, where is she?” I asked again. I felt the vein in my neck pulsate as my temper rose. My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides. My nails dug crescents into my palms.

Harlen took a step back and met my eyes. “I can explain.”

“What the fuck happened?!” My voice bounced off the walls of the loft. “You only had to keep her safe! Tell me where sheis!” Each word came out louder than the last. My control was dangling by a thread.

“Harlen.” Chanel’s voice broke through my anger. “What happened?” Her question was more like a plea.

My mind told me Harlen had done something to Morgan. Did he drain her? Did he get too rough with her and kill her? I didn’t want to think the worse, but he was standing here, and she wasn’t.

“You disappeared for three days, and you show up here alone. Where the fuck is Morgan?” I grabbed the front of Harlen’s shirt and pulled him closer to me. I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands because I could tell by the look in his eyes that something bad had happened.

“Morgan.” Harlen said, not trying to break free of my grip. “She’s?—”

The elevator door opened again. We all turned to see the new arrival.

Morgan.

Morgan stepped off the elevator, and immediately I knew something was wrong. She moved differently, stiffly, more like a robot, like a child learning to walk for the first time. Her skin was paler than usual and lacking the red undertones. The tinge of color that made her sometimes appear biracial was no longer there.

“Morgan!” Chanel cried out, rushing toward her friend. “Oh, my God! Why didn’t you answer my calls?”