Page 39 of Run for Her Life

Specter: Yeah. Spent a couple hours in. Looks basic on the surface, but it pulls you in.

AnnPlays: Right? It’s not even complex, just…real. Like your brain stops questioning it after a while.

Specter: That’s what got me. After a bit, I forgot I was wearing a headset.

AnnPlays: I felt the same. Lost all track of time. The world design is unreal.

Specter: Everything feels… too real. Like it’s waiting for you to mess up.

AnnPlays: It’s just good VR. I’m glad you liked it.

Specter: Maybe. Or maybe it’s more than that.

AnnPlays: What are you talking about?

Specter: What if it doesn’t stop when you log out?

AnnPlays: Okay, weird take.

Specter: Just saying. Some things in there feel like they’re watching you.

AnnPlays: That’s not funny.

Specter: I’m not joking.

AnnPlays: I’m done with this convo.

Specter: No, you’re not.

“Who is this Specter?” Zoe asked.

“I don’t know. It kind of works like Reddit. It’s a username and there’s no way to track unless we get a court order…”

Zoe hung her head low. “Yeah. That will be fun. Was this their only interaction?”

“No. I think they chatted two more times. It’s all archived though. I can pull it out. This could be something, right? This creep that she was talking to online?” she asked desperately, like she was clutching at straws.

“It’s hard to say,” Aiden said softly. “Online spaces operate within a psychological boundary. An artificial detachment from reality that allows people to express darker impulses without consequence. For most individuals, that boundary remains intact. They compartmentalize. They understand the distinction between online persona and offline consequence.”

“Right.” Lisa let out a frustrated breath. “So this Specter might just be some harmless freak.”

Zoe nodded, but Aiden’s words loitered in her head about how online space provided hard boundaries for dark impulses. A sharp discomfort tugged at her chest, questioning how strongherboundaries were to keep her dark impulses from hurting someone.

TWENTY-FOUR

Zoe incessantly clicked the end of a pen, her mind racking through Annabelle’s autopsy reports. There had to be something here. Some pattern or some clue concealed beneath the brutality of her torture and her death. But her brain was too frazzled and worked up.

She needed peace. She needed to feel rooted. She needed to fixsomething.

She wandered down to the break room to find something to snack on. The sky outside was bleeding black. She had been at it for over three hours and hadn’t realized where the time had gone. Opening the fridge, she took out a loaf of bread and decided to make a peanut butter sandwich when someone caught her eye.

A man walked into the substation in a black leather jacket, his hair shaved close to the scalp. His mouth moved as he chewed gum. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just an easy, measured pace, boots tapping against the tile, hands slipping into his jacket pockets like this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

Like a shark smelling blood, Zoe knew he was trouble. She closed the fridge and waited.

His eyes zeroed in on one of the deputies—Ethan. He didn’t even shake off the rain as he stopped in front of a deputy’s desk. “You need to stop wasting my time.”

Ethan’s eyes flicked around, his jaw tightening. “We have to follow proce?—”