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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Evangeline

Knight turns my phone over in his hands like it’s a bomb that might go off at any second. The expression on his face is undecipherable, but tension radiates out from him.

“When did you say you bought this?”

“Two weeks ago.” I wrap my arms around my knees. I’m shaking again. Why can’t I stop shaking? “I dropped mine into the sink while I was doing dishes, and it wouldn’t turn back on.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Convenient timing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Did you tell your friend?”

“Yes.”

He sets the phone onto the coffee table with exaggerated care. “Did they suggest where to get a replacement from?”

I stare at him. They had . They sent me a helpful link to a sale at a local electronics store, as well as a suggestion about which model would be the best for my budget and needs.

Knight reads the answer in my silence. “Of course they did.”

“That doesn’t mean anything . People always make suggestions. It was just—” The protest dies in my throat. Nothing about this situation is just anything anymore.

He picks up the phone again, studying it from all angles. “When you bought it … did they set it up in the store, or did you take it home to do it?”

I bite into my lip, thinking about all the late night messages explaining settings, suggesting apps, helping me to transfer my contacts.

“Stop it! You’re making it sound?—”

“Like someone spent weeks engineering every detail of your life?” His eyes don’t move away from the phone. “That’s exactly what happened. Every conversation. Every suggestion. Every piece of help was designed to get this phone into my apartment. If you hadn’t dropped it, you’d have lost it. Something would have happened that required you buying a new one.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that people don’t typically spend weeks pretending to be someone else just so they can make a new friend.”

A bell chimes, and I almost jump out of my skin. Knight’s head jerks up, and swings around. Standing, he walks across to a door that has a small screen beside it. He taps it, then nods.

“Stay there.”

He says it like I have any choice in the matter, and moves to the door. Now his back is to me, I can see the gun in the holster at his back. It makes my stomach flip.

This is the real Knight. Not the supportive presence who sent me cat memes. Not the understanding voice who talked me through panic attacks. This man treats weapons like they’re extensions of his body, and phones like they’re potential threats.

I listen to the elevator as it descends. Even that sound sounds like it’s controlled, like everything else in this fortress he calls an apartment. My fingers dig into my knees as I wait.

Should I try to run? But where would I go? The only exit is via the elevator, and he’s using that.

There is nowhere for me to go, so I stay where I am, and Knight appears a few minutes later with a pizza box. The scent of pepperoni fills the air, and my treacherous stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since the rice he forced me to eat earlier. How long ago was that?

Moving with the same fluid efficiency he seems to do everything with, he sets the box onto the coffee table and flips it open. Two cans of soda are placed beside it. He slides one toward me.

“Eat, and drink.”

I look at the pizza, then at him, then back at the perfectly normal food sitting in the middle of this completely insane situation.

“What? No commentary about poison?” One corner of his mouth quirks up. “No accusations about drugging the pizza?”

“Would it matter if I did think that?”

“Not really.” He sits back in the armchair, my phone returning to his hand. “But you need to eat, and I need to think.”

The pizza sits between us, steam rising from the cheese, and my stomach cramps with hunger.

“You’re not going to force feed me this time?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Do you need me to?”

I scoot forward, and take a slice of pizza, ignoring how my hands are shaking. “I’d rather starve than go through that again.”

“I mean … that can be arranged.” His attention returns to the phone in his hand.

I take a bite of pizza, and force myself to chew and swallow it. I need the strength food will give me. I need to stay alert. I need to understand how I ended up in this situation.

All the late night conversations I had with the man I thought was Knight go through my mind. Every message about Michael. Every shared moment of understanding, of support. Every little kindness made me trust him more.

“Why would someone do this?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why would someone spend so much time pretending to be you?”

“To get that phone in here.” He taps the top of it with his thumb. “The bigger question is what’s on it, and why did they need you to deliver it?”

“It’s just a phone!”

His gaze lifts to mine. “Is it?”

“What else could it be?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” He reaches for a slice of pizza. “Eat your food.”

“Whatever you think is going on, it’s nothing to do with me.”

"Of course not." His voice is dry. “You’re just the perfectly innocent messenger. Someone who was prepped to walk straight into my apartment without any hesitation, because my alter-ego spent weeks making you trust them completely.”

The pizza turns to lead in my stomach. “Stop.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to face just how much you’ve been manipulated? Scammed ?” There’s nothing but hardness in his voice. “They learned your patterns, your fears, and your desperate need to find your brother. Then they used all of it to make sure you’d follow their instructions without any question.”

“I said stop it!”

“They build the perfect trap, using your pain as its foundation.” He ignores me. “Every message. Every single conversation you had. How much information did you give them without realizing what you were doing?” He drops the phone onto his lap. “I bet you’re the kind of person who believes psychics know all the answers as well. Every moment of understanding they shared with you had one motive. To get you here, with this.” His fingers tap the phone again.

I launch to my feet, pizza forgotten. “You think I’m stupid. I get it. You don’t have to keep telling me.” The words tear from my throat. “I’m sorry for being desperate to find my brother. I’m sorry for trusting them. I’m sorry I thought I found someone who understood what I was going through. I’m sorry for believing that someone was helping, that someone finally cared about finding Michael!” My fingers are clenched, nails biting into my palms. My wrists are throbbing. The world spins slightly, then rights itself.

“And that, right there , is why they chose you.” His clipped response holds no compassion, no understanding for my position.

A sound between a laugh and a sob escapes me. “Because I was pathetic enough to fall for it?”

His head tilts, eyes moving over me. There’s nothing intimate about the action. He could have been looking over an inanimate object for all the emotion on his face. In fact, if I was a computer, he’d probably look way more interested.

“Because you’re genuine enough to make it work.” His voice is flat, the complete opposite to how I sound. “Your desperation, your hope, your trust. All of it makes you the perfect weapon to use against me.”

“I’m a person , not a weapon.”

“Maybe not. But you are the sheath they used to hide one.”

I turn away, wrapping my arms around myself and look out of the window. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah, no. That’s not happening until I figure out what’s on this phone, and why someone went to so much trouble to get it into my apartment.”

“I don’t know anything about it!” My shout echoes off the walls.

“Which is why you’re still alive.” His reflection in the glass rises, and I spin around to face him. “When you’re done eating, you can use the bedroom down the hall. First door on the left. Get some rest.”

He walks away, taking my phone and any hope of answers with him, leaving me alone to deal with the knowledge that every conversation, every shared concern and fear, every response was a calculated move in someone else’s game.

I don't know what hurts more—the betrayal of discovering the man I was connecting with doesn’t exist, or being trapped here with the cruel reality of the real Knight.