Scarlett's POV
I'm running.
Down Zara's apartment stairs, past the officers who yell for me to stop, onto the dark Manhattan street. My lungs burn. My legs shake. But I can't stop.
Dante is dying because of me.
"Scarlett! Stop!" Zara's voice behind me, but I don't look back.
I flag down a taxi, throw myself inside. "Metropolitan Hospital. Now. Please hurry."
The driver takes off, and I pull out my phone with trembling hands. Twenty missed calls from unknown numbers. Dozens of texts from the stalker, each one worse than the last.
"Did you see what I did to your hero?"
"He thought he could save you. Stupid man."
"This is what happens when people interfere."
I delete them all, fighting back tears. Then I call the hospital.
"I need information on Dante Russo," I say when someone answers. "He was just brought in. Gunshot wounds."
"Are you family?"
"I'm—" What am I? A witness? A victim? The reason he's dying? "Please. I need to know if he's alive."
A pause. "He's in emergency surgery. That's all I can tell you."
Surgery. That means he's alive. For now.
The taxi pulls up to the emergency entrance. I throw cash at the driver and run inside. The hospital is chaos—doctors rushing, machines beeping, someone crying in the corner.
"Where's Dante Russo?" I ask the first nurse I see.
"OR-3. But you can't—"
I'm already running down the hall, following signs to the operating rooms. A security guard tries to stop me, but I dodge him, my heart pounding.
I find OR-3. Through the small window in the door, I can see doctors working frantically. So much blood. Too much blood.
"Miss, you need to leave." A hand on my shoulder.
I spin around. It's an older man in a suit, FBI badge visible. His face is grim.
"I'm Scarlett Hayes. This is my fault. The killer shot him because of me."
Recognition flashes in his eyes. "Agent Morrison. I'm Dante's supervisor." He guides me away from the door, his grip firm but not unkind. "What do you mean it's your fault?"
I tell him everything in a rushed whisper—the stalker, the threats, the phone call warning me about Dante. "He said anyone who tries to protect me dies. He shot Dante to prove it."
Morrison's face hardens. "We have units searching the parking garage for evidence. We'll find whoever did this."
"You don't understand. This killer is always ahead of you. He knew where Dante was going. He knew when. He's watching everything."
"Then we'll catch him. That's what we do."
But his eyes say he's not so sure.
A doctor emerges from OR-3, pulling off bloody gloves. Morrison and I rush over.
"How is he?" Morrison demands.
"Three gunshot wounds. One to the shoulder, one to the abdomen, one grazed his neck. He's lost a lot of blood. The next few hours are critical." The doctor looks exhausted. "But he's fighting. If he makes it through the night, his chances improve significantly."
If.
That one word destroys me.
"Can I see him?" I ask.
"Not yet. He's being moved to ICU. Maybe in a few hours."
The doctor leaves. Morrison turns to me. "You should go home. Get some rest."
"I'm not leaving."
"Miss Hayes—"
"He got shot protecting me. The least I can do is be here when he wakes up." My voice breaks. "If he wakes up."
Morrison studies me for a long moment. "You care about him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I just met him today. But yes. I do."
"Dante doesn't let people in easily. After his mother..." Morrison trails off. "But I saw the way he talked about you. The way he insisted on handling your case personally. I've never seen him like that."
The information makes my chest ache. "That makes this so much worse."
Morrison's phone rings. He answers, his expression darkening as he listens. "Understood. Keep me posted." He hangs up and looks at me. "Julian Cross is missing."
My blood runs cold. "Missing?"
"He never came home after the restaurant. His phone is off. His apartment is empty. We have units searching, but..." Morrison pauses. "There's blood in his apartment. Not much, but enough to suggest violence."
The world tilts. "So the stalker has him? Like he threatened?"
"Or Julian is the stalker and he's covering his tracks." Morrison's tone is careful. "We still don't know which scenario we're dealing with."
"Julian was at the restaurant when Dante was shot. There's no way he could've done both."
"Unless he has an accomplice."
My head spins. Nothing makes sense anymore. Is Julian a victim or a killer? Is the stalker one person or multiple? How many people are in danger because of me?
"There's something else." Morrison pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. "We found this in the parking garage where Dante was shot."
It's a note. Written in the same handwriting as the card that came with the bracelet.
"Strike One: The FBI Agent. Strike Two: Coming Soon. Strike Three: Scarlett Dies."
I can't breathe.
"He's playing a game," I whisper. "Like baseball. Three strikes."
"Which means two more people are going to get hurt before he comes for you." Morrison's jaw clenches. "We need to put you in protective custody. Immediately."
"No."
"This isn't negotiable—"
"He said if I don't come to him tomorrow at midnight, he'll kill everyone I love. That includes my best friend Zara. He knows her name. Knows where she lives." Tears stream down my face. "I can't let anyone else get hurt because of me."
"So you're planning to walk into a trap?"
"I'm planning to end this."
Morrison shakes his head. "That's suicide."
"Maybe. But it's my choice."
We stare at each other, deadlocked.
Finally, Morrison sighs. "Dante would kill me if I let you do this."
"Then it's good he's unconscious."
"Miss Hayes—"
"Scarlett. Just Scarlett."
"Scarlett." His tone gentles. "I understand you're scared. But going to that meeting alone is exactly what this killer wants. Let us help you."
"How? By putting me in a safe house while he picks off everyone I care about one by one? No. I'm done hiding."
Morrison's phone rings again. He answers, listens, and his face goes pale. "When? ... Jesus. Okay. Lock it down. Nobody goes in or out."
He hangs up, and I know before he speaks that it's bad news.
"What happened?"
"There's been another murder. A woman named Rachel Kim, twenty-six years old." He pauses. "She worked at The Grind. Your coffee shop."
The floor disappears beneath me. "Rachel? But I just saw her yesterday. She was fine. She was—"
"She was found an hour ago in her apartment. The killer left another note. It says: 'Strike Two.'"
I'm going to be sick.
Rachel is dead because of me. Dante is dying because of me. Julian is missing because of me.
Everyone I touch turns to death.
"We're evacuating everyone who works at that coffee shop," Morrison says. "Putting them in protective custody until we catch this guy."
"He'll just find someone else. Don't you see? As long as I'm alive, people around me die."
"Then we catch him before he can hurt anyone else."
But we both know that's not how this works. The killer is always ahead. Always watching. Always winning.
A nurse approaches. "Agent Morrison? Mr. Russo is being moved to ICU now. He's stable but still critical."
"Thank you." Morrison looks at me. "Do you want to see him?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We follow the nurse down a long hallway to the ICU. Through a glass window, I see Dante on a bed, tubes and wires everywhere. His face is pale, his breathing assisted by machines.
He looks so vulnerable. So human.
This powerful FBI agent who seemed invincible just hours ago is now fighting for his life.
Because of me.
"Five minutes," the nurse says, opening the door. "He can't hear you, but you can sit with him."
I walk in on shaking legs. Up close, Dante looks even worse. Bandages cover his shoulder and abdomen. A breathing tube helps his lungs work. Monitors beep steadily, tracking his heartbeat.
I take his hand carefully, afraid of hurting him. His skin is cold.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have gotten involved. You should've just ignored me and let me handle this alone."
But even as I say it, I know he never would have. That's not who he is.
"You have to wake up," I continue, tears falling. "Because I think I need you. And I know we just met, and that's crazy, but..." I squeeze his hand gently. "Please don't die."
His heart monitor beeps steadily. No response.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his hand. "I'm going to end this. Tomorrow night, I'm meeting the killer. I'm going to make sure he never hurts anyone else again."
"Don't... do that."
I jerk back. Dante's eyes are barely open, unfocused but aware.
"You're awake!" I press the call button for the nurse. "Don't talk. You need to rest."
"Trap," he rasps, his voice barely audible. "Don't... go..."
"I have to. It's the only way."
"No." His hand tightens weakly around mine. "Promise... me."
"I can't promise that."
"Scarlett..." His eyes struggle to focus on my face. "Not... your fault."
"Yes, it is."
"No." He coughs, and I see blood on his lips. "Let... me... protect you."
"You already did. And look what happened."
Nurses rush in, pushing me aside. They check his vitals, adjust his IV, speak in medical terms I don't understand.
"You need to leave," one tells me. "He needs rest."
I back toward the door, but Dante's eyes follow me. Even barely conscious, he's trying to protect me.
As I reach the hallway, Morrison is waiting. "He spoke?"
"He told me not to go tomorrow night."
"Smart man. Are you going to listen?"
I look back through the window at Dante, surrounded by machines keeping him alive.
Then I think of Rachel, dead in her apartment.
Of Julian, missing and possibly next.
Of Zara, who could be Strike Three if I don't act.
"I'm going," I say quietly. "And you can't stop me."
Morrison opens his mouth to argue, but his phone rings first. He answers, listens, and his face goes white.
"What?" I demand.
He shows me his phone. A live news feed.
BREAKING: Body Found in Chelsea Art Gallery - Identity Confirmed as Julian Cross
My legs give out.
Morrison catches me, but I barely feel it.
Julian is dead.
The man I was falling for. The man who made me feel special. Dead.
"They found him an hour ago," Morrison says gently. "Multiple stab wounds. He'd been dead for hours. Since before Dante was shot."
Which means...
"He wasn't the killer," I whisper.
"No. He wasn't."
Julian was innocent. Just another victim. Another person who died because they got close to me.
My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number.
"Strike Three is coming sooner than midnight. Check your friend's apartment. If you want to save her, you better run fast. You have ten minutes. The clock is ticking, Scarlett. Tick. Tock."
"ZARA!" I scream, already running.