Page 11

CHAPTER TEN

Evangeline

Silence fills the apartment like a living thing, broken only by a humming noise from somewhere beyond the living room. Fresh needles of pain stab through my arms as feeling returns, constant waves of fire that steal my breath. I try to ease it by moving, and a tremor rips through my shoulder. I bite back a whimper.

The sound draws his attention and I freeze, prey-still under his gaze. Under the warm sunlight spilling through the window, the marks on his face from where I hit him are visible, faint but there. The sight should satisfy something in me, but it only emphasizes how completely at his mercy I am.

"The pain is going to get worse before it gets better." He sounds almost analytical, like I’m some kind of science experiment. "Your body is remembering how to process sensation."

"Thanks to you." I can’t stop the retort.

His head tilts, eyes narrowing, then he stands and I shrink back against the back of the couch. But he only walks away, moving past without looking at me. Every step reminds me how easily he carried me in here, how helpless I am if he decides to hurt me again.

Water runs somewhere out of sight. Doors open and close. I try to focus on breathing, on staying conscious through waves of pain that threaten to drag me under. My fingers spasm with returning circulation, each twitch a fresh burst of agony.

When he returns, there’s something white dissolving in the water glass he carries. The sight of him approaching sends a fresh wave of terror through me.

I hate what he’s turned me into. I’m not this shrinking, fearful girl.

"Painkillers." He rests the straw against my lips. Like I should just accept anything from him after what he's done.

I turn my face away. "No."

"Right. Because martyrdom is clearly the correct answer here." His dry tone makes me stiffen. He takes a sip of water. "Drink the fucking water before you pass out. I'm not in the mood to deal with dramatics."

Another spasm rips through my shoulder, and I can't stop the small sound that escapes. He shoves the straw between my parted lips. The water tastes bitter, but I drink. I need to stay alert. Need to figure out what he's done with Knight.

"Where is he?" The question bursts out as soon as he sets the glass aside. Even talking hurts, but I need to know. "What did you do with Knight?"

He ignores my questions. "Tell me about the first time you messaged him."

"What?"

"Three weeks ago. Middle of the night. What made you reach out?"

The memory surfaces despite my attempt to push it away. Just after midnight. Another dead end with the police. I'd been searching missing persons forums, desperate for anything I'd missed.

"Someone on a forum mentioned that there are hackers who help find people who have disappeared."

"And he responded immediately." It isn’t a question.

"He messaged me after I put a post up in one of the groups. He understood about Michael." My voice wobbles. "About what it's like when the police stop looking."

"Of course he did." His fingers tap an irritated rhythm against the arm of his chair. "Tell me exactly what he said."

"Why does it matter?"

"Humor me."

"He said ..." I swallow hard, remembering that first conversation. "He said sometimes people disappear for reasons the police can't investigate. That sometimes you need someone who knows how to look deeper."

"Perfect response." His mouth twists. "Exactly what you needed to hear."

"He knew what he was talking about."

"Did he? You have enough experience with how hackers work to know that?” His eyebrow lifts. “What exactly did he find in three weeks of looking deeper?"

"He tracked Michael's gaming accounts?—"

"After you told him which games to check. What else?"

"He found login attempts?—"

"On accounts you gave him access to." There’s an irritated bite to his tone. "What did he actually discover on his own?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Lick my lips, and try to remember specific evidence beyond the constant assurance that he was making progress.

"He was working on tracking things." The words sound hollow even to me. "He said the timing of Michael's disappearance wasn't random."

"When did he tell you that?"

"Last week. When I ..." The memory catches like glass in my throat. I'd been ready to give up. I’d messaged Knight at two A.M., exhausted and lonely, to tell him I couldn't keep hoping.

"Let me guess. You were about to stop looking?"

"How did you?—"

"Because that's the pattern." His voice carries an edge of impatience now. "Every time you started to lose hope, he'd hint at new leads … right? Keep you hanging on without actually giving you anything concrete."

"He’s a hacker. He had to protect his sources, in case the police decided to look deeper. He didn’t want them to get involved."

A sound that might be a laugh escapes him. "Sources. Right. Tell me about the breakthrough that brought you here."

"He said he found something in Horizon Tech's systems."

"How convenient. What exactly did he find?"

"He couldn't tell me over messages. He said?—"

"Told you it was too sensitive?" Another mocking laugh breaks up his words. "Had to be discussed in person, did it?"

"Yes!"

"At three A.M."

"He works odd hours."

"Perfect hours, really." He leans forward. "Always online exactly when you needed someone. Response times taking just long enough to seem natural. Supporting messages that gave you hope without actual evidence."

"Stop making it sound?—"

"Like everything was perfectly set up to match your needs?" Another laugh. "Tell me about these late night conversations. What helped you connect with him?"

"He lost someone too. His sister ..."

"Give me details. What was the deal with his sister? What was her name? Did you look her up? What happened to her? Older or younger than him? How long ago did she disappear?”

I reach for specifics, but find only vague references. Hints of shared pain without concrete information.

"He understood what I was going through." My voice wavers despite my attempt to stay strong. "He knew what it was like, searching and searching when everyone else gives up."

"Understanding isn't information." His eyes bore into mine. "Three weeks of conversations. All those late nights when you couldn't sleep, when you poured out your heart and soul to him, and you know nothing about him other than the name and fucking cat memes, do you? Yet, he knew everything about you. You’re a hacker’s fucking wet dream. No effort required."

“That’s not true!” But his words burrow under my skin. I try to grasp something solid in all those messages. Some detail beyond his constant support and promises of progress.

"He helped me. When no one else understood, he was?—”

"Did he tell you not to speak to anyone else? It was dangerous, right? You didn’t want to attract attention that would make it harder for him to investigate. Talking to other people would mean he’d have to cut contact, and you didn’t want that, did you? He was your only chance to find your brother, but if the authorities knew he existed?—”

“He didn’t mean?—”

He snorts. “He kept you isolated. He ensured he was your only support. Your only connection to hope."

"No!"

"Every time you considered moving on, he'd dangle new possibilities. He’d find a new hint that Michael was alive. And it kept you coming back night after night, desperate for answers only he could provide."

"That's not?—"

"And then, after weeks of vague promises, he discovers new information." His fingers drum faster against the chair. "Information that could only be shared here . In the middle of the night. In my apartment."

" Your apartment?" The words emerge strangled. "This is Knight's place."

"This is my space. My security system." He rises, pacing the length of the room. "Someone manipulated you into walking straight into a trap, and you're still defending them."

"He's trying to help me find Michael!"

"He doesn’t fucking exist." He spins to face me. "An engineered persona designed to earn your trust. To learn your patterns. To make sure you'd follow his instructions without question when the time came. They will have spent weeks before contacting you learning everything there was to know. Your vulnerabilities. What would make you respond. What would make you feel. And then they ensured they were available whenever you felt most alone." He watches me with unsettling intensity. "Then used that trust to deliver you here … to me. With your fucking laptop."

"Stop it!" The words come out as a shriek.

"Why? Because you're starting to see the pattern?" His eyes never leave mine. "Three weeks of building your dependence, making you rely on them. Learning exactly how to keep you hoping. Making himself invaluable. If I had to make a guess, I’d say everything was programmed into a computer, and you’ve been talking to that . There’s no person, just a program designed to keep you where they want you. That’s why they were always there when you were online. They made the perfect program to keep you focused."

I squeeze my eyes shut but I can't escape his voice.

"Someone spent weeks preparing you for exactly this moment." His voice softens but the words cut deeper. "Making sure you'd walk into this apartment believing completely in a person who doesn't exist."

"He has to exist." I can’t hide the desperate need for it to be true from my voice, but doubt hovers at the edges of my conviction. "He is the only one who believed me about Michael."

"Think about what you're defending." His voice stays neutral but his words slice through my defenses. "Someone who appeared the moment you were at your most desperate. Who said exactly what you needed to hear. Who kept you hoping with promises that never materialized."

"No." But the denial sounds weak even to me.

"He told you what you needed to hear." He moves closer, and I can't look away from the certainty in his eyes. "But the question is … why did someone go to so much trouble to deliver you to me ?"