Maya couldn't shake the feeling that bigger eyes were watching, and that night, somewhere three states away, her instincts were being proven accurate in the worst possible way. But she had no knowledge of roadside motels or corrupt federal contacts or photographs being studied by people who wanted her dead.
All she knew was that sleep wouldn't come.
Not after Madison's territorial smirk, not after Mateo's frustrated glare as he stalked away from the confrontation, not after Ethan's conflicted stare that seemed to see too much. The night pressed heavy through her dorm window, seeping through the glass like humidity that made breathing difficult. Every sound in the building felt too loud in her head—footsteps in hallways, doors closing, the distant hum of vending machines dispensing late-night caffeine fixes.
I need air. I need space. I need to think.
So Maya climbed.
