Chapter 2

No way. That’s fucking impossible. I lurched backward, crashing into the folding chair behind me and sending it clattering to the floor. The shadow in the photo... was that me? No, I was going there to save her! How could I kill her? I wouldn't lay a finger on her.

I bolted into the bathroom and splashed freezing water on my face. Water dripped from my chin as I stared into the bloodshot eyes in the mirror. "It's a setup. Pure psychological warfare from whoever's pulling the strings," I muttered, forcing the logic into a tight loop. "He wants me to think I'm the killer so I'll bail on the abandoned chemical plant on the East Side. If I don't show, Lily's left completely unprotected." Yeah, that had to be it. The photo was mailed three months ago. I hadn't stepped on that broken glass back then, so there was no way that Z-shaped gash was on my sole. It was a doctored photo! Forged evidence!

My phone buzzed again, a digital death knell. [11 PM tomorrow. The abandoned chemical plant on the East Side. Don't be late, Cole.]

I stared dead at the screen, my chest heaving. They were baiting me. Or maybe, herding me. If I didn't go, would the shadow still show up? If I did, I could butcher the bastard in black with my own two hands. I yanked open the drawer, pulled out a razor-sharp tactical hunting knife, and shoved it into the back of my waistband. Then I dug a black hoodie out from the depths of my closet and pulled it on.

The second I pulled the hood up, my reflection in the mirror perfectly overlapped with the blurry Grim Reaper in the photo. "Whoever you are," I flashed a vicious grin at the mirror, "tomorrow night, I'm chopping that shadow into pieces."

The night was still young. Exactly twenty-four hours until 11 PM tomorrow. I sat on the edge of the bed, the hilt of the hunting knife digging into my lower back. The cold steel kept me sharp. The wall clock ticked, counting down every second. I’d been prepping for this moment for three solid months. Over those three months, I’d snatched her from the Reaper’s grip three times.

The first time was a gas leak in mid-April. That afternoon, I hacked into her DoorDash app and changed the default delivery address to the old reservoir park, a couple of miles out. "Cole! Why the hell was my food delivered way out by the old reservoir park?!" she blew up at me over iMessage. I was her landlord. I had all her spare keys and account passwords. "Probably GPS drift. I'll ping the Dasher for you," I texted back, keeping it cool. She stormed out to go grab her food, pissed. Half an hour later, a massive explosion ripped through the rundown apartment building she rented. A blowout from an aging gas line blew the roof clean off the entire third floor. Flames shot into the sky, and shattered glass rained down on the pavement like hail. Standing behind the police tape, staring at her bedroom reduced to scorched earth, she called me, her face pale as a ghost. "Cole... if I'd been home, I'd be dead." "Some people are just blessed," I said into the phone, watching the thick black smoke billow in the distance, unable to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. That was the first time I tasted the sweet thrill of rewriting fate.

But the Reaper struck back fast. Early May. The prophecy pointed to the rickety freight elevator at her office building. Sabotaging the elevator directly was too loud, so I went with something more under the radar. For three nights in a row, I snuck into her office building at midnight, melted the fire exit sensors with a cigarette butt, and shoved wet wipes into the electrical panel. On the morning of the fourth day, the Fire Marshal showed up for a surprise inspection. Citing a "major fire hazard," they cut the power to the whole building for mandatory repairs and sent everyone home early. The second Lily stepped out of the building's glass doors, the freight elevator behind her let out a sickening screech of tearing metal. *BOOM!* The cab went into freefall from the sixteenth floor, smashing straight through the basement. The tremor shook the pavement out on the street. "Sent home early again..." she stood on the curb, shaking like a leaf. I handed her a hot latte. "Building's falling apart. You need to find a new job." She didn't take it. Her eyes darted around like a spooked deer. "Cole, don't you think this is a little too much of a coincidence? A gas explosion, an elevator crash... why do I keep dodging the bullet by a hair?" "Because you're lucky." "No." She chewed her nails nervously, her voice trembling. "I feel like someone's watching me. Like someone's pulling the strings behind the scenes." That was the first time she got scared of her own "luck."

Her fear peaked in early June. The prophecy that time was a multi-car pileup on the interstate. Six dead. I knew she was driving to the next city over for an art exhibit that weekend. If I tried to stop her flat-out, she'd call 911 and have me arrested. So, the night before she left, I snuck into the underground parking garage and used bolt cutters to snip her brake lines. I left just a thin sliver of metal holding it together. My hands were shaking when I made the cut. But I knew it was the only way to keep her off the interstate. The next morning, the second she merged onto the overpass and tapped her brakes, the pedal went straight to the floor. She screamed, yanking the steering wheel. The car slammed into the guardrail, airbags deploying. Exactly three minutes after her front end got wedged against the rail, half a mile ahead, an 18-wheeler hauling rebar jackknifed and rolled over. A massive pileup. Six cars crushed like tin cans, blood running down the asphalt and into the storm drains. By the time the state troopers dragged her out of the wreck, she was crying so hard she was dehydrated.

I went to the hospital to see her. Wrapped in a blanket, she stared holes through me, her eyes bloodshot. "My brake lines... they were cut." Her voice was raspy, like sandpaper on wood. "The troopers said the cuts were clean. It was deliberate." My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my face totally blank. "Probably a shady mechanic cutting corners." "Cole." She suddenly grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my flesh. "Was it you? You're the only one with the key fob to my garage! Are you trying to kill me?!" "I'm saving you!" The words were right on the tip of my tongue. But I swallowed them. I took her freezing hand in mine, looking at her with eyes so sincere I almost convinced myself. "Lily, I swear to God, I would never hurt you." She yanked her hand away, looking at me like I was a monster. "I'm moving out. I'm leaving tomorrow, as far away from you as I can get."

The memories cut off abruptly. I reached back and touched the hunting knife at my waist, the chill of the blade reassuring me that everything I’d done was worth it. Mortal minds can't comprehend the grand design. She thought I was manipulating her, thought her life was just a series of malicious coincidences. But she didn't know that if it weren't for my three extreme interventions, she’d be dead three times over. Her fear, her disgust, even her hatred for me—they were just the chips I had to pay to rewrite her fate.

I stood up, walked over to the corkboard, and studied that death prophecy photo once more.

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