Page 93 of Misery

"I'll send prospects to check," Magnus says, already texting.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

My chest tightens like a vice.

She's breaking down beautifully. Threw a glass at the wall. Rio's trying to calm her but she won't stop crying. Should see how she shakes.

I delete it.

I don't need the distraction.

Don't need to think about Elfe right now when I can't fix anything.

Can't save her father. Can't protect her from the truth that's coming.

"Got something." Bodul, one of the prospects, knocks on the door.

Runes hollers for him to come in and the kid's out of breath, sweat running down his face despite how chilly it is this January. "Black SUV spotted at the warehouse district an hour ago. Bartender at Lowlifes saw it heading that way. Said it was moving fast, like someone was running."

Everyone moves at once.

Weapons checked, safeties off.

Bikes starting, engines roaring to life like war drums within minutes.

But I know before we get there—Thiago's already gone.

This is bread crumbs.

He wants us to find something, just not him.

It's how he plays. Always has.

The warehouse is exactly as I remember it.

Broken windows like dead eyes staring at nothing.

Graffiti covering cinderblock walls—new tags over old ones, layers of history nobody cares about.

We used to come here to drink stolen beer and pretend we were harder than we were.

Now I'm here looking for my girlfriend's father, taken by my dead best friend who isn't dead.

The irony tastes like rust.

"Blood," Tor calls out from the loading dock. "Fresh. Still wet in places."

We follow the trail inside.

More blood—droplets leading deeper into the darkness.

Zip ties cut and discarded, bloody from where they cut into wrists.

A chair with rope marks on the arms, wood worn smooth from struggle.

Ivar was here. Tied up. Bleeding.