Page 102 of Little Spider

The kind that says something has already happened.

I cut the engine before I even reach the curb and step out slow, fingers wrapped around the knife strapped to my arm. My body is buzzing from the last three hours—tracking, threatening, searching for a ghost that keeps slipping out of reach.

None of that matters now.

The second I reach the apartment door?—

It’s open.

Not broken. Not kicked in.

Unlocked.

That’s worse.

Raven knows better.

She never leaves it open.

“Raven?”

My voice barely echoes.

I step inside, and the air hits me like a fist.

Cold. Still. Wrong.

She’s not here.

The room is intact. The table still smeared with memories of the last time I touched her. The bedroom door half open. Her sweatshirt on the floor.

But she’s not in it.

I move fast now. Knife out.

Windows. Fire escape.

Hallway.

Nothing.

Then I notice it.

The wall.

Left of the dresser.

The vent.

Ripped open.

Screws stripped, metal bent back. Inside—a dark cavity.

I drop to my knees and throw my phone light into the crawlspace.

Her footprints.

Fresh.