Page 14 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

MIRA

I stare at the black leggings and fitted tank top laid out on my bed—the outfit I’ll wear to the Hunt in just two days.

My apartment feels smaller tonight; the walls seem to be closing in.

The copy of the signed NDA sits on my desk like a ticking bomb, reminding me that I’ve willingly walked into Xavier Blackwood’s trap.

For what? A story that might never see the light of day, given what I’ve signed.

My laptop screen glows in the dim light, displaying the meager information I’ve gathered about the Blackwoods and their mysterious Hunt. It’s not enough to justify the risk.

“What have I done?” I whisper to the empty room.

The worst part isn’t what I’ve done to myself—it’s letting Cora choose the same path. What a mess. Her face appears in my mind: determined, excited even, at the prospect. She doesn’t understand what we’re up against. How could she? I barely understand it myself .

I pull out my notebook and flip through pages of observations about Xavier—his movements around Purgatory, snippets of overheard conversations. None of it tells me what the Hunt actually entails.

“Fifteen hunters. Six of us,” I murmur, trying to make sense of the odds.

My phone buzzes with a text from Cora.

Still can’t believe we’re doing this! What are you wearing?

The normalcy of her question makes me laugh bitterly. It’s as if we’re preparing for a cocktail party instead of whatever twisted game Xavier has designed.

I move to my living room wall, where I’ve created a makeshift evidence board. Photos of Xavier and his brothers, newspaper clippings about Purgatory’s opening, rumors of disappearances connected to the club—all connected with red strings in a web that feels increasingly tangled.

What exactly am I looking for during this Hunt? Evidence of illegal activities? Proof of the Blackwoods’ corruption? Or is something more specific about Xavier himself?

I grab my recorder and test it, then tuck it into a small, hidden pocket I’ve sewn into the lining of my dress. My insurance policy. I’ll need to be strategic about when to use it, assuming I get the chance.

I tuck the recorder away and sink onto my couch. The weight of what I’m about to do presses down on my chest .

“Dad would kill me if he knew,” I whisper to myself.

My mind goes back to the day I told my father I was becoming a journalist instead of joining the police academy. The disappointment in his eyes had been palpable. Three generations of Sullivan law enforcement came to an end with me and my notebook.

“Laws only work when people enforce them, Mira,” he’d said, his detective badge glinting under the kitchen lights. “The pen isn’t mightier than the gun when you’re facing down criminals.”

But I’d proven him wrong, hadn’t I? That exposé on Councilman Reeves two years ago had brought down his entire human trafficking operation when traditional police work had failed. My words had accomplished what his handcuffs couldn’t.

Mom had understood better. “Your grandfather wore a uniform, and your father carries a badge, but you, Mira—you carry the truth. That’s just as important.”

The memory strengthens my resolve. This story about the Blackwoods isn’t just another byline. It’s about continuing my family’s legacy of justice in my own way.

My phone buzzes again with another text from Cora, this time with a photo of her trying on a sparkling emerald dress.

This one says, “Claim me if you dare,” right?

Cora approaches everything with the same fearless enthusiasm—college, career decisions, and now this deadly game with the Blackwood brothers. Part of me envies that freedom, that ability to leap without looking, that has always defined her.

But another part—the part that’s seen what powerful men like Xavier can do—wishes I could convince her to walk away. Her father’s political position makes her involvement even more dangerous. If something were to happen to the mayor’s daughter because of me...

I admire her courage and her loyalty as a friend, but this isn’t some adventure. This is walking into the lion’s den with a target on our backs.

I stare at Cora’s message for a long moment before texting back.

Whatever we wear, we need to be able to move in it. This isn’t a gala.

I rub my temples because I haven’t told Cora everything, like how I’ve noticed security at Purgatory doubling in the past week or the strange shipments arriving after hours. Whatever this Hunt entails, the Blackwoods are investing serious resources into it.

My phone buzzes again, but it’s not Cora this time. Unknown number. I hesitate before opening the message.

You’ve signed away more than you realize. The Hunt isn’t what anyone thinks. Not a game. Some don’t return. Delete this.

My stomach drops. I read the message three times, my hands growing cold. I try to call the number back, but it’s already disconnected.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my heart racing.

I pace my apartment, the message replaying in my mind. Some don’t return. Is it a threat or a warning? And who would send this? Someone inside Purgatory? Another participant?

My instincts kick in. I need to verify this information and find a second source to confirm its accuracy. But time is running out, and I’ve signed that damned NDA.

A knock at my door makes me jump. I check the peephole to see my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Finch, holding a luxurious black package with red ribbon.

“This was left at my door by mistake, dear,” she says, handing me a small parcel. “No return address.”

I thank her and close the door, examining the package with growing unease. My name is written in elegant script, but there’s nothing else to identify the sender.

With trembling fingers, I unwrap it to find a small wooden box. Inside lies a delicate mask—white porcelain with intricate red veins spreading across it like blood seeping through cracks.

Beneath it is a handwritten note:

For the Hunt. Wear this. X.