Page 15 of Haunted

Xavier’s words echo in my head.

Once you’re in, there’s no turning back.

I slam the glass down, wine sloshing over the rim. My notebook sits open beside the contract, but I’ve barely written anything useful. What kind of story is worth this? What exactly am I permitting them to do to me?

My phone lights up with a text from my editor.

Any progress on the Blackwood story?

I stare at it, unable to form a response. How do I explain that I’ve signed away my rights to a man whose eyes hold nothing but darkness and calculation? That I’ve willingly walked into what feels increasingly like a trap?

I push away from the table and pace my small apartment, running my hands through my hair. The walls are closing in. I’m a Sullivan. We don’t back down from danger. But this... this is different.

The contract’s final clause burns in my memory:

Participant acknowledges that upon completion of the Hunt, they belong to the one who catches them if they should decide to keep them for a maximum duration of twelve months.

Belong. The word sits heavy in my gut like a stone.

I pick up the papers again, searching desperately forloopholes, for any way out, but the language is airtight. Every scenario, every possible escape, has been anticipated and blocked.

Less than two weeks. I have less than two weeks to prepare for whatever hell awaits me at the Hollow’s Hunt. Grabbing my laptop, I get to work trying to find out more about the infamous event.

I’ve searched every database. Public records, news archives, social media—nothing. The Hollow’s Hunt might as well be erased from digital existence. My searches hit dead end after dead end, each one more frustrating than the last.

“Figures,” I mutter, rubbing my tired eyes, the clock on my nightstand showing three seventeen a.m. Of course, there’s nothing. Those NDAs exist for a reason—and I’d bet my career that every woman who participated before me signed the same damned contract.

My apartment feels claustrophobic tonight. Notes cover my walls—photos of Purgatory’s exterior, employee schedules, snippets of conversations I’ve overheard. Three weeks of undercover work, and still no evidence that they are doing anything illegal.

I flip open my notebook again, thumbing through the pages I’ve filled with observations. Floor plans sketched from memory. Notes about regular patrons. Security rotations. Staff hierarchies. I’ve been through it all a thousand times, looking for the thread that will unravel everything. So far, I can’t find a single fraying thread, not even a dust bunny; there’s nothing.

I’ve never accessed the back office. The lockeddoor behind the bar. Xavier’s private quarters. The basement level doesn’t appear on any building plans.

I pick up my pen, draw another circle around “basement access,” and connect it to “product storage?” with a question mark. What moves through that level? Drugs? People? Money?

My stomach twists.

The Hunt is their most protected secret. Whatever happens during it must be central to exposing the Blackwoods.

I grab my employee badge, turning it over in my hands. Two more shifts before I’m officially “on leave” to prepare for the Hunt. Two more chances to poke around areas I shouldn’t be in.

I pin a new layout of Purgatory to my wall, marking areas I need to revisit. The wine cellar. The security office. The private elevator requires a special key.

“One way or another,” I whisper to the empty room, “I’m finding answers.”

I toss my notepad onto my desk. I’m no closer to finding anything concrete on the Blackwoods that isn’t buried under layers of legal protection. They’re untouchable on paper—the perfect corporate citizens with their squeaky-clean public image.

“You’re not getting away with whatever sketchy shit you’re hiding,” I mutter, clicking through another series of news articles.

My family has dedicated their lives to upholding the law. Dad spent thirty years as a police chief, and Mom prosecuted more criminals than I can count. Here I am,their daughter, about to walk willingly into the lion’s den, but sometimes justice requires risks.

I pull up the business profile of Xavier, finding him staring back at me from my laptop screen—confident, composed, with those steel-gray eyes that cut right through you. The professional headshot shows him in an impeccably tailored suit, looking every bit the successful entrepreneur.

“Who are you?” I whisper, zooming in on his face.

My finger traces the sharp line of his jaw on the screen. There’s something magnetic about him that makes my heart race every time he’s near—and not just from fear. That’s the part I hadn’t counted on. My helpless response to him contradicts my brain’s warnings.

I click through to another photo—Xavier at a charity gala, champagne in hand, surrounded by the city’s elite. The perfect disguise for whatever darkness lives beneath that polished exterior.