Chapter 1
The best way to save a girl's life is to shatter her leg yourself. I gripped the blood-slicked steel pipe, watching her thrash in the muddy puddle, screaming curses at me through the agony. Sirens wailed at the corner. I dropped the weapon and let out a breathless, relieved laugh. As long as she was admitted to County General Hospital tonight, she’d perfectly dodge tomorrow night's death sentence.
The sirens shrieked like a rusted hacksaw, slowly tearing through the thick, rainy night. The strobing red and blue halos hit the puddles at the alley mouth, looking like pools of blood that refused to wash away.
I melted back into the shadows, watching the paramedics load Lily onto the stretcher. She was still sobbing, her right leg dangling at a sickening angle, slurring out demands to "catch that psycho." Two beat cops scanned the alley entrance. Their flashlight beams swept over the dumpster I was hiding behind a few times, but only caught a couple of spooked strays.
"You'll be fine," I mouthed silently through the curtain of rain. A bed at County General, plus at least three months in a cast. It was the absolute safe zone I’d custom-built for her. Pulling my cap low, I turned and slipped into the labyrinth of the gritty South Side alleys. The blood on my hands had gone cold, sticking to my palms like syrup. It was her blood, carrying the faint, haunting scent of jasmine perfume.
Pushing open the rusted iron door, I threw all three deadbolts and yanked the blackout cloth off the wall. I flicked the switch. Harsh fluorescent light flooded the 200-square-foot basement. And illuminated a wall plastered densely with "Lily."
From the bodega where she bought her morning coffee at exactly 7:15 AM, to the stray tabby she always fed outside her office building. Hundreds of photos were connected by red yarn, forming a massive web that belonged to me alone. I’d paid a heavy price to spin this web. I knew she was allergic to peanuts, so I secretly swapped out the nutty granola bars in her office breakroom; I knew her ex was a violent hothead, so when he tried to stalk her, I jammed his brake calipers with rags. I was the invisible cleaner in her life. She didn't need to know. As long as she was safe, that was enough.
My gaze finally settled on the corkboard in the dead center of the room. Pinned to it was a yellowing Polaroid. In the photo, Lily lay in a pool of blood, her face chalk-white. The background was the towering cooling towers of the abandoned chemical plant on the East Side. The glowing digital numbers of a clock in the corner were frozen dead at 23:00. And right next to her corpse stood a blurred figure in a black hoodie.
Three months ago, this photo and a blood-stained key had been slipped under my door. At first, I thought it was a sick prank. Until the prophecies on the back of the photo came true, one by one. "April 12th. Lily will pass out from low blood sugar at the subway station." That day, I left a piece of hard candy by the turnstile. She picked it up, ate it, and made it home safe. "May 3rd. The Uber Lily is riding in will get rear-ended." That day, I deliberately slashed the tire of that specific car. The driver was forced to swap vehicles, dodging a massive multi-car pileup.
But tomorrow night's death sentence was the endgame. The shadow in the photo had no face, just a suffocating, pitch-black void. I’d tried calling the cops, sending anonymous tips, even setting traps around the chemical plant. But the course-correcting force of fate was terrifyingly absolute. Whenever I tried to alter the macro-environment, it only triggered a deadlier chain reaction.
"I have to cut it off at the source," I muttered, turning on the faucet and scrubbing the dried blood from between my knuckles. The man in the mirror had sunken eyes and a messy scruff, but a martyr's fanaticism burned in his gaze. As long as Lily couldn't make it to the chemical plant, the shadow couldn't kill her.
Tonight, she was supposed to hit up the new night market on the East Side with her best friend, just over a mile from the chemical plant. I wasn't going to allow even a one-in-ten-thousand chance. So, I trailed her the whole way. When she turned into that blind alley with no security cameras, I raised the steel pipe.
"Cole? Why the hell are you following me?" she had gasped, stumbling back and twisting her ankle in her heels. "Lily, skip the night market. Go home," I rasped, blocking the alley entrance like a brick wall. "Are you out of your fucking mind?! I already called 911, stay away from me!" She hurled her purse at me, her eyes dripping with disgust. "Cole, what the hell do you want from me? I pay my rent every month, can't you as a landlord have some fucking boundaries?!" she screamed, shaking with rage.
I listened to her piercing accusations, feeling nothing but pity. Boundaries? The Grim Reaper doesn't give a shit about boundaries. "Lily, listen to me. Don't go anywhere tonight." I reached out to grab her hand. "Fuck off!" She slapped me across the face, her nails slicing the corner of my eye.
A bead of blood welled up, but I just smiled. "Don't blame me," I ground out through clenched teeth, bringing the pipe down. The sickening crunch of the steel pipe shattering her tibia was followed by her blood-curdling scream. It was the sound of the gears of fate being violently jammed. Watching her collapse into the muddy puddle, a wave of morbid euphoria washed over me. This was the price of salvation. I took on the sin, so she could embrace tomorrow.
Wiping my hands dry, I walked over to the corkboard and gently traced Lily's closed eyes in the photo with my fingertip. "Tomorrow night at eleven, you just get a good night's sleep at the hospital," I whispered. "Leave the rest to me." Right then, the burner phone on the desk suddenly buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from an unknown number.
[Leg's broken, so she definitely can't go. But guess where the guy in black is going tomorrow night?]
My pupils contracted. I snatched up the phone. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. How could they know my plan? Had I been the one being watched this entire time for the past three months? I fired back: [Who is this?] The message sent, sinking into the void. Ten seconds later, the second text popped up.
[Look at the photo on your wall. Bottom right corner.]
I whipped my head around, locking my eyes on the death prophecy photo pinned dead center on the corkboard. Leaning in. Closer. In the bottom right corner of the photo, on the ruined brick wall that was supposed to be swallowed by shadows, there was a faint reflection. I grabbed the high-powered magnifying glass from the desk and held my breath. It was half a bloody shoeprint. On the edge of the print, there was a highly distinct, Z-shaped wear pattern.
I froze, the blood draining from my entire body in an instant. Slowly, I looked down at the beat-up sneakers I’d been wearing for three years. On the outer edge of the right sole, there was a Z-shaped gash. A scar left from last week, when I stepped on broken glass while chasing a stray dog that had almost darted under Lily's car.
