The knock came again.Three sharp raps—precise, deliberate, not the hesitant tap of a lost neighbor.
Emily's breath hitched. Her mind screamed don't move, but her body betrayed her—she turned her head toward the narrow hallway that led to the back of the apartment.
James was already there, moving like a shadow, his bare feet silent against the wooden floor. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. Just pressed a finger to his lips.
The rain outside had become a deafening wall of sound, but the silence inside the apartment was worse. Every creak of the floorboards felt amplified, every breath too loud.
James reached the back door and stopped. His posture changed—slightly hunched, his right hand drifting instinctively toward the inside of his jacket.
Emily's heart sank. He's armed.
He didn't open the door. Instead, he stood completely still, listening.
Then came the sound—a faint scrape, metal against metal. Someone was picking the lock.
James's eyes narrowed. He stepped away from the door and motioned for Emily to get behind the kitchen counter. She hesitated, wanting to ask a thousand questions, but the look in his eyes told her this wasn't the time.
She ducked down, her knees pressed against the cold tiles, her hands trembling.
The scraping stopped.
The lock clicked.
James moved with sudden precision—grabbing the doorknob and yanking it open before the intruder could step inside. A man stumbled forward, caught completely off guard.
He was tall, soaked from the rain, with a hood clinging to his head. His eyes widened as James shoved him hard against the wall.
"What the hell are you doing here?" James growled.
The man coughed, his voice hoarse. "You don't answer your phone, you don't return messages… I had no choice."
Emily peeked from behind the counter. She didn't recognize him.
James's grip didn't loosen. "You had every choice. You just chose wrong."
The man's gaze darted toward Emily, and she froze. There was something in his look—not recognition exactly, but a calculation, like he was taking mental notes.
"I need to talk to you," the man said. "Now. Before she gets here."
James's expression darkened. "She's already been here."
The man swore under his breath. "Then you're running out of time."
Emily couldn't stay hidden any longer. "What is going on? Who is she?"
Both men looked at her, but it was the stranger who answered.
"She's not who you think," he said. "And if she has the key—"
"Enough," James snapped, cutting him off.
But Emily had heard enough to know this was bigger than some petty grudge. "The key to what?" she demanded.
The stranger looked at her again, his eyes intense. "The warehouse."
Emily's stomach dropped. "The one on Carson Street?"
He nodded slowly.
James stepped between them, his voice cold. "You need to leave. Now."
The man straightened, pulling his hood back. His face was angular, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and there was a thin scar running from his eyebrow to his temple. He didn't look afraid.
"You think you can keep this buried forever?" he asked. "She's not the only one who remembers what happened."
James didn't reply. His hand twitched toward the door.
The man took a step closer to Emily. "If you want the truth, meet me tomorrow. Noon. Pier 6."
James shoved him back. "Get out."
The stranger didn't resist. He just pulled his hood up again and slipped into the storm, vanishing as quickly as he'd come.
Emily stood there, her pulse racing. "Pier 6? What happened at the warehouse, James?"
James closed the back door and locked it, his shoulders tight. "It's not safe for you to know."
Emily shook her head. "Not safe? Or not convenient?"
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, finally, he said, "If you go tomorrow, you'll regret it."
But even as he said it, Emily knew she would go.