The mechanic was holding the bank manager by the face, kissing her like they were the only two in the world. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was whispering something, her lips brushing his ear.
“The kid’ll take the blame... he doesn’t even know it.” She moaned, “You’re a genius, baby. We’ll be millionaires.”
It hit like a knife.
I froze.
My hands tightened around the bags, breath catching in my chest. Rage burned hotter than fear now, hotter than adrenaline. I didn’t care who they were. I didn’t care what they planned. All I knew was I was getting out with the money and leavingalone.
I threw the bags over my shoulders and turned, sprinting toward the right side of the bank where an emergency door led into the alley.
I burst through it and kept running.
My ears rang. The mask stuck to my skin, suffocating me. I could feel sweat burning down my back like acid. My whole body shook like I was dragging fire through my veins.
The alley was long, narrow, and darker than it should’ve been. I could feel the chill shift as I ran; something cold had crept into the space between me and the street.
I slowed. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
That’s when I saw him again.
Ian.
He stood at the edge of the alley, just beyond the shadow line. Pale. Still. Watching me the same way he did back at the gas station.
I lifted my head, eyes wide, heart in my throat.
He didn’t speak. Just turned slowly and pointed to the wall.
Taped to the rusted brick beside the dumpster were six old posters of missing children. Their faces were sun-bleached andhalf-torn, but I could still make them out. All from around the area. Some were younger than Ian. A few... the same age.
He stepped closer.
Right up to my face.
And then he screamed.
No words came, just a blast of noise, of air and anger. His eyes turned white, and his breath came out in dry clouds that scattered into the air.
I stumbled back, dropped the bags. My legs gave out as I collapsed behind the dumpster, panting, hands trembling.
I ripped the ski mask off and shoved it inside one of the bags, trying to hide it like it meant something.
And that’s when I saw the paper. It was stuck to the inside of a damp box near my knee. One word stood out in faded red marker:“Help Needed”
Underneath it, there was an address.
I knew the house. Gloomsbury Manor.
The house had found me again. It knew I was back, and it has been waiting. But for me now, that would be the only place where no one would find me, where I can hide from everyone.
I stood, takingthe paper with me.
Then I ran up ahead, just around the corner, where there was a narrow stretch of road with a small bar on the left side. Parked out front, like some god sent it to me, was a blackHarley Davidsonwithkeys still in the ignition.
No one was there, so I didn’t think, I didn’t pause. I ran toward it, threw my leg over the seat, stuffed the bag in front of me, and kicked it into gear. And as I drove off, from behind me, the bar door burst open. An older biker stumbled out, beer bottle still in hand.
“Hey! That’s my Harley!” he shouted, rage rising.
