POV: Amber Hayes
"The warehouse is on fire right now?" I grabbed my bag and followed Dante to the door. "But the voices said midnight. They said—"
"They lied." Dante was already moving, his stride long and purposeful. "Or they moved the timeline again. Either way, if we don't get there now, any evidence burns with the building."
We ran to his car. The tires screeched as he pulled out of the garage, and suddenly we were racing through San Francisco traffic like we were in an action movie. Except this was real. The fire was real. The murders were real.
"Call 911," Dante ordered, weaving between cars. "Report the fire if it hasn't been called in yet."
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and dialed. The operator answered immediately.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a fire at Pier 27. A warehouse—"
"We're aware, ma'am. Fire units are already on scene. Are you in danger?"
I looked at Dante, who shook his head sharply.
"No, I just... I saw the smoke. I wanted to make sure someone knew."
"Units are responding. Please stay clear of the area for your safety."
I hung up. "Fire department's already there."
"Good." Dante's jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "Maybe they'll save the night watchman. Maybe."
The way he said it made my stomach drop. "You think he's already dead."
"I think they moved their timeline up by eight hours, which means they're panicking. Panicking criminals make mistakes, but they also kill faster." He glanced at me. "Put on your vest. We might be walking into an active crime scene."
I pulled the bulletproof vest on over my sweater, my fingers fumbling with the straps. It was heavy, uncomfortable, and made everything feel horrifyingly real.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked as we sped toward the waterfront. "You could have turned me over to the police, let them deal with this. Instead you're driving into a fire to catch murderers. Why?"
Dante was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the road. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than I'd heard it before.
"Eight months ago, I had a witness. Maria Gonzalez. Twenty-three years old. She was trafficked from Mexico, forced to work in a factory, beaten, starved. She escaped. She came to me. She was ready to testify against the entire operation." He paused. "The day your article about me published, Maria disappeared. Three weeks later, her body washed up in the bay. Overdose, they said. Suicide, they ruled. But I know better."
My chest tightened with guilt and horror. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't need to know. You just needed to verify your facts before publishing." His voice wasn't angry anymore, just tired. "But you didn't. And Maria died because my investigation got shut down while I fought to clear my name. So yes, I'm doing this. Because maybe if I stop them now, Maria's death means something."
I couldn't speak. What could I say? Sorry didn't bring back the dead.
We reached Pier 27 in fifteen minutes that felt like fifteen seconds. Smoke billowed into the evening sky, thick and black. Fire trucks surrounded the warehouse, their lights painting everything red and blue. Firefighters sprayed water through broken windows while others kept crowds back.
Dante parked two blocks away and killed the engine. "We can't get close without being questioned. But we can watch. Maybe catch someone who shouldn't be here."
"Like who?"
"Like whoever set the fire." He pulled out binoculars from his glove compartment. "Arsonists often stick around to watch their work. It's a power thing."
We sat in tense silence, watching the chaos. Crowds gathered behind the police tape—curious onlookers, nearby workers, people with phones recording everything for social media.
Then I saw her.
A woman standing apart from the crowd, not recording, not talking to anyone. Just watching the fire with a small smile on her face. She was maybe forty, dressed too nicely for this neighborhood, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
"Dante," I whispered, pointing. "That woman. Ten o'clock, standing by the lamppost."
He swung the binoculars toward her and went very still. "That's Elena Voss."
"Who?"
"High-level fixer for wealthy clients. She makes problems disappear—legally and otherwise. I've tried to build cases against her three times and failed every time. She's too careful, too connected." His voice was hard. "And she's here watching a warehouse burn. That's not a coincidence."
Elena—the woman from the voices. The one who'd ordered the fire, who'd casually discussed killing the night watchman like she was ordering coffee.
"We need to follow her," I said.
"No. We need to wait for my team and—"
"By the time your team gets here, she'll be gone!" I was already opening my door. "She murdered that watchman. She murdered Marcus Chen. She's probably murdered dozens of people, and she's standing right there—"
Dante grabbed my wrist. "And if you confront her alone, you'll be next. She's dangerous, Amber. Trained, connected, and ruthless."
"Then come with me. You're a prosecutor. Arrest her or question her or something."
"On what grounds? Being near a fire? That's not a crime."
"Then what are we doing here?" Frustration burned hot in my chest. "We can't just watch her walk away!"
"We document. We observe. We build a case." Dante's grip on my wrist was firm but not painful. "That's how the law works."
"The law failed Maria Gonzalez. The law failed Marcus Chen. The law fails everyone while people like Elena Voss burn buildings and kill people and smile about it!" I yanked my wrist free. "I'm not waiting anymore."
I got out of the car before Dante could stop me.
"Amber, don't—"
But I was already walking toward Elena Voss, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, every survival instinct screaming at me to turn back. But I couldn't. Not while she stood there gloating over murder.
I got within twenty feet before she noticed me. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and her smile widened slightly. Recognition. She knew who I was.
"Ms. Hayes," she said pleasantly, like we were old friends meeting for coffee. "What a surprise seeing you here."
"You set this fire." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You killed the night watchman. You killed Marcus Chen."
"Those are serious accusations." Elena's tone stayed light, amused. "Do you have any proof? Or is this like that article you wrote—all fiction dressed up as fact?"
The words hit like a slap. She knew about my destroyed career. Of course she knew. They knew everything.
"I heard you," I said quietly. "I heard you planning this. Every detail."
Elena's smile didn't falter, but something shifted in her eyes. "Heard me? How interesting. Tell me, Ms. Hayes, have you been taking your medication? I understand you've been under a lot of stress lately. Financial problems, a sick sister, the shame of professional failure. That can make people hear all sorts of things."
She was gaslighting me. Publicly. Making me sound insane to anyone who might be listening.
"I know what I heard," I said, but doubt crept into my voice. How could I prove voices no one else could hear?
"Of course you do." Elena's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Just like you knew Dante Cross was fabricating evidence. Just like you knew your sources were reliable. You have such certainty about things that aren't true." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "Go home, little journalist. Take care of your dying sister. Forget about fires and voices and things that don't concern you. Because the next accident might not be at a warehouse. It might be in an oncology ward. Do you understand?"
Terror flooded through me. She was threatening Lily. Right to my face. Casually. Like it meant nothing.
"Stay away from her," I choked out.
"Then stay away from me." Elena's smile returned to full brightness as Dante appeared beside me. "Mr. Cross! How lovely to see you. Still chasing ghosts, I see. And now you've recruited Ms. Hayes to your delusions. How romantic."
"Elena." Dante's voice was ice. "Enjoying the show?"
"I'm simply a concerned citizen observing a tragedy. This warehouse—such old wiring. Fires are so common in buildings like this. The city really should update their safety codes." Her eyes glittered with malice. "I do hope no one was inside when it caught fire. That would be terrible."
"Where were you between 3:00 and 5:00 PM today?" Dante asked.
"At lunch with clients. I have twelve witnesses who can confirm it. Would you like their names, or are you planning to accuse them of fabricating evidence too?" She tilted her head. "Oh wait, that was your scandal, not mine. I get my scandals confused sometimes."
She was untouchable. Standing here threatening us, admitting to nothing, with alibis already prepared.
A commotion erupted near the warehouse. Firefighters were bringing someone out on a stretcher. Even from this distance, I could see the body bag.
The night watchman. Dead. Just like the voices predicted.
"How tragic," Elena murmured, watching them load the body into an ambulance. "What a terrible accident."
"It wasn't an accident," I said. "You murdered him."
"Prove it." Elena's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Oh wait—you can't. Because you have no evidence, no credibility, and no one believes you. You're the journalist who cried wolf, Ms. Hayes. Even if you're telling the truth this time, nobody will ever believe you again."
She was right. That was the worst part. She was completely right.
Elena checked her watch. "I have dinner plans. Enjoy your evening, both of you. And do try to stay out of trouble. Accidents happen so easily to people who ask too many questions." She started to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and Ms. Hayes? Give my regards to Lily. I hope her treatment goes well. It would be such a shame if something went wrong."
She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me shaking with rage and helplessness.
Dante's hand landed on my shoulder. "Come on. We need to leave before someone questions why we're here."
"She just threatened my sister to our faces and we're walking away?" I spun to face him. "This is exactly what I'm talking about! The law doesn't work against people like her!"
"No, it doesn't. Not yet." Dante steered me back toward his car. "But she made a mistake."
"What mistake? She has alibis, no evidence, and complete immunity!"
"She admitted she knows who you are. Knows about Lily. Knows about your financial problems." Dante's jaw was tight. "That means she's been researching you, following you, which means you're important enough to monitor. People only monitor threats."
"So what? That doesn't help us!"
We reached his car. Dante unlocked it but didn't get in. Instead, he turned to face me fully.
"You asked me earlier why I'm helping you. The truth is, I'm not just helping you. I'm using you." His ice-blue eyes were steady on mine. "You're bait, Amber. The best bait I've ever had. You hear their plans before they execute them. They know you hear them, but they can't figure out how. That makes you unpredictable, and they hate unpredictable. So they'll keep coming after you, keep making mistakes, keep revealing themselves."
"You're using me as bait," I repeated slowly. "You're deliberately putting me in danger to catch them."
"Yes."
"And you're telling me this because...?"
"Because I don't lie. Not to witnesses, not to victims, not to anyone." His expression was hard but honest. "You need to know what you're getting into. If you work with me, you will be in constant danger. They will try to kill you. They might succeed. But you'll also have a chance to stop them and save the people they're targeting next."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll do everything I can to protect you and Lily, but they'll eventually kill you anyway. People who hear too much don't live long in this world." He paused. "At least this way, you die fighting back."
It was the most brutal honesty anyone had offered me in months. No comforting lies, no false promises. Just the terrible truth.
"I want protection for Lily," I said. "Real protection. Not just promises."
"Done. I'll have armed guards at the hospital within the hour."
"And when this is over—if we survive—you help me clear my name. Prove I was set up."
"Agreed."
I took a deep breath. "Then I'm in."
Dante nodded once, then finally got in the car. I slid into the passenger seat, my mind racing.
We pulled away from Pier 27, leaving the fire and smoke and death behind. My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Smart move, talking to Elena. Now she knows your face. Easier to kill you that way. See you at midnight. Oh wait—we already came early, didn't we? Maybe we'll come early for Lily too. Keep guessing when. That's half the fun.
My hands started shaking again. I showed Dante the text.
His expression darkened. "They're playing games. Psychological warfare. They want you scared and reactive."
"It's working."
"Good. Fear keeps you alert." He glanced at me. "But don't let it control you. Scared people survive. Terrified people make mistakes."
We drove in silence for a few minutes before I asked the question burning in my mind.
"The voices. You said I'm not crazy and it's not really voices through walls. So what is it?"
Dante was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Have you heard of quantum entanglement communication?"
"No."
"It's theoretical technology that allows sound transmission through molecular frequency matching. Essentially, someone can broadcast conversations directly into specific locations—or specific people—without traditional sound waves. It's been in development for years but supposedly hasn't been successfully tested."
My stomach dropped. "Supposedly?"
"Brandon Ashford's company has a black ops research division. They developed a prototype quantum communication system three years ago. The military wanted it for covert operations." Dante's voice was grim. "According to my sources, the prototype went missing from a secure facility about nine months ago. Right around the time your apartment building underwent a 'smart technology upgrade' funded by an anonymous donor."
The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. "They installed the technology in my building. They're broadcasting their criminal conversations directly into my apartment as some kind of... what? Test?"
"Test. Trap. Message. Maybe all three." Dante glanced at me. "But here's the part they didn't expect: the technology was designed to transmit, not receive. They're broadcasting their plans, but they don't realize you're actually hearing them. They think you're getting information some other way—through bugs or hacking or informants. They don't know about the voices."
"So I really am hearing them. It's not in my head."
"It's absolutely not in your head. You're hearing real conversations broadcast through quantum technology. Which means—" His phone rang, cutting him off. He answered on speaker. "Cross."
"Dante, it's Martinez." A woman's voice, urgent. "We've got a problem. The night watchman from Pier 27? He's not dead."
I sat up straight. "What?"
"He's alive. Barely. Critical condition, but alive. Firefighters got to him in time. He's at SF General now, unconscious but stable."
Dante and I looked at each other, the same thought hitting us simultaneously.
"He's a witness," I breathed.
"If he wakes up, he can identify who set the fire," Dante said into the phone. "Martinez, I need guards on his room immediately. Armed. No one gets in except medical staff I personally clear."
"Copy that. But Dante? There's more. Someone already tried to get into his room. Claimed to be family. Security stopped them because the watchman's family contact information lists him as having no living relatives."
"Description?"
"Female, forties, dark hair. Left when security questioned her."
Elena Voss. She'd gone straight from threatening us at the pier to the hospital to finish what she started.
"She's going to try again," I said. "She can't leave a witness alive."
"Then we get to him first." Dante was already turning the car around. "Martinez, lock down that floor. No one in or out except emergency medical staff. I'm ten minutes away."
He hung up and punched the accelerator. We were racing through San Francisco again, but this time toward something hopeful instead of away from death.
"If the watchman wakes up and identifies Elena, you have your witness," I said. "You can finally arrest her."
"If he wakes up. If he remembers. If she doesn't kill him first." Dante's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "A lot of ifs."
My phone buzzed again. I almost didn't want to look, but I forced myself.
This time it wasn't a text. It was a voice message.
From a number I recognized.
Brandon's number.
With shaking hands, I pressed play.
"Hello, Amber." Brandon's voice was smooth, casual, like we were still engaged and everything was fine. "I heard you've been asking questions about fires and murders. Very concerning. You really should stop before you get hurt. Or before Lily gets hurt. You remember Lily, don't you? Your sick baby sister who needs expensive medical treatment you can't afford? It would be tragic if something happened to her. If, say, her medication got switched with something harmful. Or her IV got disconnected during the night. Hospitals are so dangerous, you know. People die there all the time."
My blood turned to ice.
"But here's the thing, darling—I'm willing to forgive you for all this nonsense. Come back to me. Drop this investigation, forget everything you think you heard, and I'll make sure Lily gets the best care money can buy. I'll even take you back. Chloe's pretty, but you were always more interesting. What do you say? Your sister's life for your cooperation? Seems like an easy choice."
The message ended.
I sat frozen, the phone trembling in my hand.
Dante glanced over. "What is it?"
"Brandon." My voice came out as a whisper. "He just offered to save Lily's life if I come back to him and stop investigating."
"He's bluffing."
"What if he's not?" I looked at Dante desperately. "What if he really can get to her? What if she dies because I'm too stubborn to make a deal?"
"You make that deal, and you're dead within a week. So is Lily. He'll have no reason to keep either of you alive once you're under his control." Dante's voice was hard but not unkind. "There's no deal with the devil that doesn't end in hell, Amber."
He was right. I knew he was right.
But that didn't make the choice any easier.
We pulled into SF General's parking lot. Dante barely stopped the car before jumping out. I scrambled after him, still wearing the bulletproof vest, probably looking insane.
We ran through the emergency entrance, flashed Dante's prosecutor badge at security, and took the elevator to the ICU on the fourth floor.
The hallway was chaos—armed hospital security, police officers, medical staff arguing about lockdown protocols. Dante pushed through to a detective I didn't recognize.
"Cross? What are you doing here?"
"The night watchman is a witness in a murder investigation I'm running. Has anyone tried to access his room?"
"Just the woman security stopped earlier. She hasn't come back."
"Yet," Dante corrected. "What's his condition?"
"Critical but stable. Smoke inhalation, second-degree burns, head trauma. Doctors say if he wakes up, it won't be for at least twelve hours."
Twelve hours. A lot could happen in twelve hours.
"I want two officers on this floor at all times," Dante ordered. "No one enters his room without medical ID that I personally verify. No exceptions."
The detective bristled at being given orders, but Dante's reputation carried weight. He nodded reluctantly.
We stayed at the hospital for two hours, Dante coordinating security while I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and tried not to think about Brandon's offer. Tried not to imagine Lily dying because I was too proud to surrender.
At 9:00 PM, Dante came back looking exhausted. "Security's locked down. The watchman's safe for now."
"And Lily?" I asked quietly.
"I've got two of my people stationed outside her room as well. Ex-military, completely trustworthy. No one's getting to her."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. We still have to survive the night." He checked his watch. "My team is assembling at my apartment at 10:00 PM. We need to plan our next move."
"There's still no evidence. No way to prove Elena set the fire or killed Marcus Chen or any of it."
"Not yet. But—"
A nurse's voice over the intercom cut him off: "Code Blue, ICU Room 407. Code Blue, ICU Room 407."
Room 407. The night watchman's room.
Dante and I ran. Medical staff flooded the hallway, rushing into the room with crash carts and equipment. Through the open door, I could see them performing CPR on the watchman, his vitals crashing on the monitors.
"What happened?" Dante demanded of a nurse.
"I don't know! He was stable, then suddenly his blood pressure dropped and—"
She stopped, staring at something on the IV stand.
"That's not the right medication," she said slowly. "That's not what was prescribed. That's—oh my God, that's potassium chloride. That'll stop his heart."
Someone had switched the medication. While we were here, while security was here, someone had gotten into that room and poisoned the only witness who could identify Elena Voss.
The code team worked frantically. One minute. Two minutes. Three.
"Time of death, 9:17 PM," the doctor finally said quietly.
The night watchman was dead.
Our only witness was gone.
And Elena Voss had won again.
Dante's face was like stone. He turned and walked away without a word, his hands clenched into fists.
I followed him to a quiet corner of the hallway where he stood staring out a window at the city lights.
"She got to him," I said quietly. "Even with all the security, she still got to him."
"She has people everywhere. Nurses, orderly staff, security guards. Anyone can be bought or threatened." His voice was flat, defeated. "This is why I can never win. This is why she keeps killing people and walking away clean. She owns the system."
"Then we break the system."
Dante looked at me. "How?"
"I don't know yet. But there has to be a way." I stepped closer. "You said I'm bait. You said they'll keep coming after me, keep making mistakes. So let them come. Let them think they're winning. And when they get careless—"
"We take them down," Dante finished, something dark and determined flickering in his eyes. "You're suggesting we go on offense."
"I'm suggesting we stop playing defense and start fighting back."
He studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a prosecutor who'd just found a legal loophole to destroy someone.
"My team is waiting," he said. "Let's go plan a war."
We left the hospital just as my phone buzzed one final time.
A video message from an unknown number.
I pressed play with a sense of dread.
The video showed a room I didn't recognize. Dark. Empty except for a single chair. And sitting in that chair, bound and gagged with terror in her eyes—
Was Lily.
My baby sister.
A voice spoke from off-camera. Male. Distorted. "Midnight. Pier 27. Come alone. No prosecutor. No police. No backup. Just you. Or we start cutting pieces off. You have three hours."
The video ended with Lily's muffled scream.