Thunder rumbled, low and close, pulling Cole from sleep.
Lightning split the sky and flooded the room in stark white for a single heartbeat. His stomach turned with sudden, sour queasiness. When the darkness returned, his eyes found her.
Rowan stood in the far corner of the bedroom, half-lost in shadow beside his painting.
She didn't move. She didn't need to.
Cole lay still, breathing shallowly, his body already awake in the way it always was when the dead were near. Amber slept beside him, bare and warm, the sheet tangled around her legs. He reached for it carefully and pulled the white cotton higher over her, shielding her from the chill that had crept into the room.
She has nothing to do with this.
He didn't know if the dead listened the way the living did, but the thought mattered. It was a boundary. It was his.
He slid out of bed slowly. Boxer briefs. Gym shorts. A shirt. He dressed with the quiet precision of someone trying not to wake the living or provoke the dead. Every movement was deliberate.
Rowan watched.
He didn't speak to her. Words felt dangerous in the dark. Like naming something gave it permission to grow.
He stepped into the hall and shut the bedroom door until it clicked softly.
Downstairs, the townhouse was cold and too quiet. Rain battered the windows, hissing against the glass. He slipped on the soft-bottomed shoes he wore to the gym, scanned the end table, and palmed his keys without looking.
He didn't check behind him. She was there, he knew, like when someone stands too close.
Outside, rain soaked him before he reached the SUV. He climbed in, flicked on the dome light, and glanced into the backseat. Gym bag—still there. He shut the light off, started the engine, and pulled away.
The road gleamed black beneath the headlights.
He drove without music, both hands tight on the wheel. Traffic was sparse. The further he went, the colder the cabin felt despite the heater running. Nausea fluttered again, sharp and unpleasant.
Rowan sat in the passenger seat.
Not solid. Not transparent. A shape carved out of absence. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders, dripping lake water onto a seat that remained bone-dry.
Cole forced himself to breathe normally. He turned on the heated seat and adjusted the climate control until warm air flowed against his hands.
"Thank you," he whispered, barely moving his lips. "For not staying at the house."
No answer. No movement. Just pressure.
The trees along the road leaned inward, branches arching overhead like ribs. The world narrowed to wet pavement and the thin line of light ahead.
Headlights appeared behind him—bright, close, too eager.
Cole glanced in the rearview mirror. The vehicle stayed with him, riding closer than was comfortable. The lights weren't quite high beams, but their wrong angle still flooded the cabin.
His stomach tightened. The car didn't pass. Didn't fall back.
It stayed.
He kept his eyes forward, jaw clenched. The nausea fluttered sharply and sourly in his gut. Beside him, Rowan's head turned. Not smoothly. Not like a living person. Like an old film stuttering between frames.
She looked at him.
Lightning flashed, and for a single second, Cole saw her clearly—ash-gray skin, milky eyes, lips cracked pale as chalk. Her clothes clung to her as if she'd crawled out of the water and never stopped dripping.
Pain rolled off her in waves.
Not fear, nor anger.
Pain.
The headlights behind him flared brighter, then the scream detonated inside his skull. No sound. Not something his ears could block. A psychic shriek of terror, loss, and finality slammed through him hard enough to blur the road.
Cole stomped on the brakes.
The SUV fishtailed on the wet pavement. Tires screamed. A horn blared behind him—angry, suddenly, close. Cole wrestled the wheel, heart battering his ribs, and forced the vehicle straight again. His vision tunneled. His mouth tasted of copper.
Rowan was gone. It was like something yanked a cord and cut the power. Cole sucked in a ragged breath and turned onto a well-lit street, the city glow washing the darkness away. He loosened his grip on the wheel by degrees.
Okay.
He wasn't okay, but he was alive.
He drove deeper into Purgatory, past shuttered storefronts and sleeping houses. Rain hammered the roof as he pulled into the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour gym and cut the engine.
The building sat mostly dark, with emergency lights glowing faintly inside.
He scanned the lot—empty. Quiet. He grabbed his gym bag and went inside. The lock flashed green. The doors unlocked. Motion sensors woke the lights in a slow chain—one row, then another—like the building reluctantly opening its eyes.
Cole dropped his bag near the mat by the heavy bag, stripped off his wet shoes and shirt, and let the cool, dry air hit his skin. He sat, pulled tape from his bag, and started wrapping his wrists.
Tape. Pull. Press. Wrap.
Pain was honest. Pain stayed where you put it. A knock rattled the glass door. Cole looked up.
Jared stood outside, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. Cole crossed the gym and opened the door.
"What the hell are you doing, Constantine?" Jared snapped the moment he stepped inside. Rain dripped from him. His chest rose and fell fast, eyes sharp as they swept Cole's face. "You saw me back there, right?" Jared said. "On the road."
The question landed wrong. Too precise.
Cole kept taping his hand. "You should moderate your tone."
Jared stepped closer—close enough that Cole caught the smell of rain and metal on him. He pressed a hand to Cole's chest. Not hard. Testing.
Cole didn't move.
Jared's eyes flicked to Cole's taped knuckles. Cole tilted his head toward the security camera without looking away. "You sure you want this recorded?"
Jared followed the gesture. His posture shifted a half-second too late. The hand dropped.
"I was behind you," Jared said, forcing a breath. "You slammed on your brakes. Thought you were trying to get us both killed."
Us.
Cole met his eyes. "A deer ran out."
Jared nodded too quickly. "You didn't hit it?"
"No. It ran off."
Relief flashed across Jared's face before he could stop it—then vanished, replaced by something smoother. Controlled.
"Good," Jared said. "Storm's got people jumpy."
Something prickled at the edge of Cole's awareness.
Rowan wasn't visible—but her agitation bled into him. Tight. Focused. The tension of something interrupted mid-motion.
Jared glanced again at Cole's hands, then at his face. Measuring.
"You okay?" he asked.
The question sounded casual. It wasn't.
Cole held his gaze. "Fine."
That was enough.
Jared nodded once, satisfied, and turned away. The gym door slammed. Cole didn't look. Tires squealed as a car tore out of the lot and vanished into the storm.
Cole stood still, breath heavy, the bag swaying gently in front of him. A thought surfaced, cold and precise.
He hadn't followed Cole into town. He'd stayed with him. Rowan's emotions coiled tighter beneath Cole's skin.
A sharp rap on the bedroom door yanked Alex awake.
She blinked hard. Thunder rattled the windows. The clock read 4:15 a.m.
The knock came again. "Alex!" Amber's voice sounded thin. "Alex—wake up."
Alex threw off the blanket and opened the door.
Amber stood there pale and wide-eyed, hair a mess, the sheet clutched around her like armor. "Cole's gone," Amber said.
Alex's posture snapped alert. "Gone how?"
"I woke up, and he wasn't there. His SUV's gone."
Alex grabbed her phone. "I'll start calling."
Amber nodded, fear tightening her voice. "So will I."
Thunder boomed outside, shaking the glass.
Alex didn't argue when Amber said, "Seamus thought something could happen to him."
Because now—so did she.