Chapter 2 Chapter 2

Dragging the file backward, I reduced as much of the wind as I could without destroying everything beneath it, then turned the volume higher as the man's footsteps sharpened and those four heavier impacts continued following at exactly the same distance.

The man stumbled, and the impacts slowed with him before matching him again when he recovered.

I replayed those seconds, listening to the spacing between each footfall. Same thing.

His breathing had turned ragged enough that every inhale scraped through the microphone, yet whatever followed never gained ground unless he slowed first.

My hand stilled over the mouse. It could catch him, but it wasn't trying to.

A cold prickle moved over my scalp as I rubbed one palm over my forearm. “That's not creepy at all.”

“No...no, stay back,” the man pleaded through the speakers, his voice cracking beneath the wind.

Something answered him.

The sound rolled through my headphones so low that I felt the vibration before my brain caught up with what I'd heard.

I'd worked with recordings of dogs growling, coyotes, and once spent forty-five miserable minutes beside a canal recording an alligator while mosquitoes feasted on parts of me I'd prefer never become public knowledge, but none of them had produced anything close to this.

Frowning, I dragged the track backward, listening as the same guttural rumble rolled beneath the wind and raised goosebumps along my arms.

“Okay, thing,” I whispered, pulling one cup away before settling it back into place. “I officially don't like you.”

The shriek hit a second later, sending the volume meters crashing into solid red and jerking me backward even though I'd known it was coming. Something struck the ground with a metallic crash, followed by the scrape of the recording device sliding across dirt before the audio settled into a dull hum.

My hand moved toward the stop button, but the progress bar was still traveling across the screen.

Twenty-eight seconds remained.

Leaning forward, I curled my fingers around the edge of the desk while wind moaned through the headphones, but the footsteps didn't return and neither did the screaming.

A heavy huff suddenly vibrated beside the microphone, jerking me backward hard enough that my chair scooted across the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed, slapping one hand against my chest as another breath followed, slower and deeper than the first.

Pulling one cup away from my ear, I looked through the glass wall into the dark studio, where the cubicles remained empty and the emergency exit sign glowed at the opposite end of the room. Nothing moved, although my pulse apparently didn't care.

Forcing the headphone back over my ear, I shifted closer to the monitor. “It's a recording, Taylor. Get a grip.”

A dry scraping noise dragged through the speaker as something heavy moved across the ground before stopping.

Then a man's voice cut through the static.

Every muscle in my body went still because it wasn't the same man. This voice was deeper and completely steady, and whoever it belonged to was close enough to the microphone that every word came through clearly.

“Leave it,” he ordered, his tone cold and flat before the track cut to silence.

I stared at the black line across my screen, trying to make sense of the fact that somebody else had been there.

“Leave what?” I breathed.

Dragging the playback bar backward, I listened again to the breathing, the scrape and then the voice.

“Leave it.”

Taking the headphones off, I set them beside the keyboard.

Not leave him or leave her.

Leave it.

Something had chased that man, something had been breathing beside the dropped microphone, and another man had been there with it.

My phone vibrated beside the keyboard, making me jump hard enough to send several Fruity Pebbles bouncing across the desk.

“Jesus Christ,” I hissed, grabbing it before it rattled off the edge.

Mom.

Closing my eyes, I let out a long breath. Nothing brought a woman down from possible-murder adrenaline quite like her mother calling about Christmas.

Swiping the screen, I answered while gathering the scattered cereal. “Before you start, I know Christmas is coming.”

“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” Mom replied with a laugh.

“Hi, Mom,” I murmured, popping a rescued Pebble into my mouth.

“You sound tired,” she commented.

“That's because I'm living the glamorous podcast lifestyle. There are stale chips and dinner from a cardboard box involved. It's very exclusive.”

“Please tell me you aren't eating that cereal again,” she complained.

I looked at the open box. “I'm not eating that cereal again.”

“You're lying.”

“Well, you specifically told me to.”

Mom laughed. “You haven't eaten an actual dinner, have you?”

“I ate,” I insisted.

“When?”

“Today.”

“Taylor.”

“I had barbecue chips,” I confessed.

“Chips aren't dinner.”

“They were barbecue,” I argued. “There were multiple food groups represented.”

“Name two.”

Opening my mouth, I stared toward the ceiling. “Potato and...barbecue.”

Her laughter filled my ear. “I raised you better than this.”

“Technically, you raised me to adulthood,” I countered. “Everything after that feels like my liability.”

“Have you decided about Christmas?” she asked.

There it was.

“I haven't decided how many days I can stay.”

“I didn't ask how many days. I asked whether you're coming.”

“I'm coming,” I assured her.

The squeal that blasted through the phone had me jerking it away from my ear. “Jesus, Mom. I'd like to arrive with my hearing intact.”

“I knew you wouldn't skip Christmas,” she exclaimed.

Bringing the phone cautiously back, I frowned. “You were willing to destroy an organ to celebrate?”

“I'll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Key lime pie.”

My irritation disappeared instantly. “You're forgiven.”

“That easy?”

“I have principles,” I explained, reaching into the cereal box. “They're just negotiable.”

Mom laughed before her voice softened. “Craig will be happy you're coming.”

“He'd better be. I bought him a present.”

“He'll love it.”

“Mom, you don't know what it is.”

“I know you,” she replied simply.

Fair enough.

I was bringing Craig a bottle of bourbon he'd mentioned once six months ago and probably forgotten existed.

Something clinked faintly on Mom's end before her voice returned with a casualness I knew entirely too well. “And Bedlam's coming.”

My hand stopped inside the cereal box, the pieces crackling beneath my fingers while I stared at the monitor without actually seeing it anymore.

“Well, shit,” I muttered.