POV: Amber Hayes
I didn't sleep that night. How could I?
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that photo of Lily—vulnerable, asleep, completely unaware that a murderer had stood feet away from her hospital bed. My phone sat on my nightstand like a loaded gun, Dante Cross's message glowing in my mind even though I'd long since turned off the screen.
Meet me tomorrow. 3 PM. Golden Gate Park.
Tomorrow was today now. In eleven hours, I'd face the man whose life I'd destroyed. The man who was either offering salvation or preparing the perfect revenge.
I stared at my ceiling, counting cracks and trying to figure out how my life had become a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
Then, at exactly 3:47 AM, the voices came back.
"The warehouse on Pier 27 is a problem." A man's voice, different from last night's. Younger, with an edge of nervousness.
I bolted upright, my heart already racing. Not again. Please, not again.
"Then make it not a problem." A woman's voice. Cold. Authoritative. The same woman from the Marcus Chen conversation. "We have three shipments sitting there that customs is starting to ask questions about. Burn it. Tonight."
"All of it?" The nervous man asked. "That's over two million in merchandise—"
"Insurance covers it, and the evidence disappears. It's simple math, Kyle. Fire investigation will call it electrical. Old building, faulty wiring, tragic accident." The woman's voice dripped with impatience. "You've done this before."
"Not on this scale. What about the night watchman?"
A pause. Then: "What about him?"
The way she said it made my blood freeze.
"You're not suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting anything," the woman interrupted. "I'm telling you to handle the problem. All of it. The merchandise, the building, any potential witnesses. Clean sweep. Do it tonight at midnight when the shift change happens. Guard will be alone. No cameras in that section."
"Jesus, Elena—"
"Don't use names, you idiot." Her voice turned sharp as glass. "Pier 27. Midnight. No traces. No mistakes. Or you'll be the one burning."
Then silence.
I sat frozen, my mind racing. They were planning arson. And murder. Another murder. Casual, efficient murder discussed like a business transaction.
My hands fumbled for my phone and notepad, shaking so badly I could barely write.
Pier 27 warehouse. Midnight tonight. Fire. Night watchman—murder. Woman named Elena.
I recorded the conversation like last time, knowing it would play back as nothing. But I did it anyway because documentation was the only thing keeping me from floating away into complete insanity.
When I played it back: silence. Just my ragged breathing.
"Why?" I whispered to my empty apartment. "Why can I hear them but can't record them? What's happening to me?"
My laptop sat on my desk, taunting me. I opened it and started researching, because that's what journalists do—we research until we find answers or lose our minds trying.
"Hearing voices through walls" returned articles about thin walls, sound transmission, neighboring apartments. Useless. My wall was exterior brick. There was no neighboring apartment. There was literally nothing on the other side but a twenty-foot drop and an alley.
"Auditory hallucinations" brought up pages about schizophrenia, psychotic breaks, extreme stress. Every symptom listed felt like an accusation: isolation, trauma, sleep deprivation, paranoia.
I checked every box.
But hallucinations didn't predict real murders. Marcus Chen was real. The SEC hearing was real. If the voices were just my brain breaking, how had I known those details?
Unless I hadn't known them. Unless I'd seen something about Marcus Chen before, forgotten it, and my stressed brain had created a story around half-remembered facts.
That made more sense than impossible voices through solid brick walls.
Except it didn't explain the threatening texts. Or the photo of Lily.
I pulled up building schematics for my apartment complex, searching for anything that might explain sound transmission. Old pipes? Air vents? Some architectural quirk that created an audio tunnel?
Nothing. My apartment was a corner unit on the top floor. No shared walls except the one facing the hallway, and these voices definitely weren't coming from there.
I researched sound equipment, listening devices, hidden microphones. Could someone have planted bugs in my apartment that were picking up conversations somewhere else and broadcasting them through my wall?
But why? Who would do that? And how would they have accessed my apartment?
The more I researched, the crazier I felt. Every explanation was either impossible or insane.
At 7 AM, exhausted and no closer to answers, I gave up and tried to work. I had articles due, and whether I was losing my mind or caught in a murder conspiracy, I still needed to eat.
I spent three hours writing "15 Shocking Facts About Royal Family Drama" and hated every word.
My phone buzzed at 10:30 AM. A text from an unknown number, but not the same one as yesterday.
UNKNOWN: Have you made your decision?
My stomach dropped. They were still watching. Still waiting to see if I'd stay quiet or cause problems.
I didn't respond. What could I say?
Another text came through immediately.
UNKNOWN: Smart girl. Silence keeps people alive. Remember that.
Then, a minute later, a third text—this one from a different number.
UNKNOWN: Don't forget. 3 PM. North entrance. I'll be wearing a gray jacket. Come alone. —DC
Dante Cross, reminding me of our meeting. The meeting that could be a trap. The meeting I had no choice but to attend because he was literally the only person who might believe me and might be able to help.
Or he could be part of this. How did he even know to contact me? How did he know about Marcus Chen and the threats?
Nothing made sense anymore.
I spent the next four hours in a haze of paranoia, jumping at every sound, checking my phone obsessively, watching the clock tick toward 3 PM like it was counting down to my execution.
At 2:30 PM, I left my apartment and caught the bus to Golden Gate Park. I sat in the back, watching every passenger, convinced they were all watching me back.
The park was beautiful—trees and grass and people jogging and walking dogs like the world was normal. Like people weren't planning murders at 3:47 AM through impossible walls.
I found the north entrance at 2:55 PM. Waited. Scanned the crowd for a gray jacket and ice-blue eyes and the face of the man I'd destroyed.
3:00 PM came and went. No Dante.
3:15 PM. Still nothing.
My phone buzzed at 3:20 PM.
DC: Behind you.
I spun around.
Dante Cross stood ten feet away, half-hidden behind a tree, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. He wore a gray jacket like he'd promised, jeans, and sunglasses that hid those famous ice-blue eyes.
He looked nothing like the polished prosecutor from the photos. He looked dangerous and tired and like he hadn't slept in days either.
We stared at each other for a long moment. Me, the journalist who'd destroyed him. Him, the prosecutor who had every reason to want revenge.
He walked toward me slowly, hands in his pockets, movements careful like he was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.
"Ms. Hayes," he said when he was close enough that I could see the dark circles under his sunglasses. His voice was exactly like I remembered from news clips—smooth, controlled, laced with intelligence and something darker.
"Mr. Cross." My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Call me Dante. I think we're past formalities." He glanced around the park, checking for watchers with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before. "We need to talk. Walk with me."
"How do I know this isn't a trap?" I asked, not moving. "How do I know you're not working with whoever threatened my sister?"
He looked at me directly then, and even through the sunglasses I felt the weight of his stare. "You don't. But you came anyway because you're desperate and I'm the only person who might believe your story about hearing voices through walls." He tilted his head slightly. "So let's stop pretending you have options. Walk with me, or walk away. But if you walk away, Marcus Chen dies tomorrow night, and your sister stays in danger."
He was right. I hated that he was right.
I started walking.
We moved deeper into the park, away from crowds, toward a section with fewer people. Dante kept his hands in his pockets, his stride long and confident despite everything I'd done to him.
"You heard them again last night," he said. Not a question. A statement.
"How did you know?"
"Because I've been tracking this murder pattern for three months. Every crime gets planned around the same time—between 3:00 and 4:00 AM. Like clockwork." He glanced at me. "When did you hear the first conversation?"
"3:47 AM exactly."
"And the second?"
"Same time."
He nodded like this confirmed something. "It's not voices through walls, Ms. Hayes. And you're not crazy."
Relief crashed through me so hard my knees almost buckled. "Then what is it?"
"That's complicated. But first, tell me what you heard last night."
I told him everything—the warehouse, Pier 27, midnight, the night watchman, the woman named Elena.
Dante's jaw tightened as I spoke. By the time I finished, his expression had gone from controlled to furious.
"Pier 27," he repeated. "Midnight. That's in nine hours."
"Can you stop it?"
"Not officially. I have no evidence, no warrant, no reason to be investigating a warehouse fire that hasn't happened yet based on the testimony of a journalist who destroyed my career hearing impossible voices."
The words stung even though they were fair.
"Then what do we do?" I asked.
Dante stopped walking and turned to face me fully. He removed his sunglasses, and those ice-blue eyes pinned me in place. They were exactly as cold as I remembered. Exactly as intelligent. Exactly as unforgiving.
"We go to the warehouse tonight," he said quietly. "And we catch them in the act."
"That's insane. They'll kill us."
"Probably." His smile was sharp and humorless. "But you wanted to be a hero again, didn't you? Here's your chance."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his entire body went rigid.
"What?" I asked.
He turned the phone toward me.
A news alert: BREAKING: BioLife Pharmaceuticals CEO Marcus Chen Found Dead in Office. Apparent Suicide.
The ground tilted under my feet.
"No," I whispered. "The voices said Thursday night. It's only Wednesday."
"They moved the timeline," Dante said, his voice hard. "Which means they know someone's listening."
His eyes locked on mine, and I saw something terrifying in them—not anger, but recognition. Understanding.
"They know about you, Amber. And if they changed Marcus Chen's murder timeline, that means they're changing other plans too."
My phone buzzed.
A text from the unknown number that had sent Lily's photo.
UNKNOWN: Told you to stay quiet. Now watch what happens when you don't listen.
Below it, a photo. Not of Lily this time.
Of me and Dante. Standing in the park. Taken from behind a tree. Taken maybe thirty seconds ago.
They were here. Watching us. Right now.
And beneath the photo, one final message:
UNKNOWN: Pier 27 at midnight. Come alone, or we kill your sister first. Then the prosecutor. Then you. See you tonight.