“I’ll tell you about the girl.” Ghost leans forward further, his voice low and conspiratorial. “But you have to give me something in return.”
I arch an eyebrow, skeptical, but I stay where I am. This glass wall only has a few small holes, but I’ve seen what he can do. “And what exactly do you think I have to offer?”
His smile returns, dark and twisted. “Your time, Dr. Andrews. Your attention. I want to know what makes you tick, what keeps you up at night. I want to understand you as well as you think you understand me.”
My throat constricts and I swallow hard, the full weight of his words sinking in. This isn’t just an obsession—it’s a need to dominate.
“You’re not getting anything from me.” I glare at him before pivoting on my heel.
“Geneva.”
The sound of my name on Ghost’s lips freezes me in place. Hearing it for the first time, in his voice, laced with that dark, insidious charm, feels like a violation. As if he’s reached inside and stripped away another layer of the armor I’ve so carefully constructed, while also caressing me.
I force myself to take a breath, to steady the tremor in my hands. I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I look at him now, I’m afraid of what I might see—what I might feel.
“Geneva,” he says again, softer this time, almost apologetic. “Don’t walk away. Not yet.”
There’s a part of me that wants to bolt out of this room, to put as much distance between myself and that voice, that man, as possible. But there’s another part—a darker, more curious part—that wants to stay, to hear what he has to say, to understand why he’s so fixated on me.
I dig my nails into my palms, using the pain as an anchor, something to hold on to, something to keep me grounded. “You haven’t earned the right to call me that.”
“But it’s your name, isn’t it? And it suits you. So strong, so poised. But there’s a vulnerability there too, just beneath the surface. I like that.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. The temptation to turn around, to confront him, to demand answers is all-consuming. But that’s exactly what he wants.
“I’m leaving,” I say, more to myself than to him, as if repeating it will give me the resolve to actually do it. I take a step toward the door, forcing my legs to move, forcing myself to keep going.
“Dr. Andrews.” His voice is low and urgent. “You’re running away, but you can’t escape me. You know that, don’t you? I’m already in your head. You’ll think about me long after you leave this room. You’ll hear my voice, see my face. You’ll wonder what I’m doing, what I’m thinking. And you’ll come back. Because you need answers just as much as I do.”
My muscles tighten, stiffening my spine. “Whether or not that’s true, you’ll never know.”
“And you’ll never find Anna Lee in time without my help.”
I spin around, my eyes wide. “She’s alive?”
He studies me for a long moment, as if carefully choosing his response, then nods slowly. “Yes. Now be a good girl and come back and play with me.” The soft words slide across my body like a physical touch, sensual and tantalizing.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest to emphasize my stance, and to fortify myself. “I’m done playing your games.”
“Okay, you win this round.” He laughs, a soft, mocking sound that sends chills down my spine. “One final request and then I’ll tell you everything you need to know to find the girl.”
“I’m listening.”
Ghost’s eyes glint with something darker, more dangerous than before, as he leans back in his chair, the chains binding him to the table clinking softly. His smile widens, a slow, deliberate curve that makes my skin crawl with foreboding.
“I want you to show me the real you, Dr. Andrews. The part you keep locked away, buried under all those rules and professionalism.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His voice is low and smooth, like silk. “I’ve seen it in your eyes, the way you struggle to keep control, to maintain that perfect façade. But I also see the cracks, the part of you underneath that longs to be free from all the rules and constraints you’ve imposed on yourself.”
A mixture of fear and something else—something I don’t want to acknowledge—slithers over me. He’s talking about the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, places I’ve never let anyone go before. Places I’ve barely dared to explore myself. And it terrifies me.
“Nothing you’re saying is true.”
He shakes his head slowly, that infuriating smile never leaving his face. “This is about truth. Your truth. You hide behind that beautiful exterior, pretending to be someone you’re not, because you’re afraid. Afraid of what it would mean to truly let go, to let someone see the real Geneva. But I see her. I. See. You.”
I fist my hands until my knuckles turn white and my forearms ache with the effort it takes to remain still. His words hit too close to the truths I’ve kept secret for so long. And I hate him for it. I hate him for seeing what I’ve spent my entire life hiding from the world.
From myself.
“You’re wrong,” I manage to say, but the conviction in my voice is slipping.
“Am I? You’re so tightly wound, so disciplined, that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be alive. You want to experience something real, something raw.”
I want to shout at him, to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know anything about me. But the words won’t come. Because deep down, in the part of me I’ve always kept locked away, I know he’s right. I have spent my life building walls, creating rules to keep myself contained, to protect myself from the chaos that I fear would consume me if I ever let it out. And I’ve become a prisoner of those rules, trapped in a life that feels more like a cage than anything else.
“You don’t know me,” I say. “I’m not going to indulge your sick fantasies.”
He laughs softly. “It’s not about indulging me. It’s about indulging yourself. For once in your life, stop pretending. Let yourself feel. Let yourself be free.”
His words are like a drug, intoxicating and dangerous, pulling me in even as I try to resist. And that’s what frightens me the most—the part of me that wants to listen to him, to experience that freedom he’s talking about. But I know that path leads to darkness, to a place I may never come back from.
His smile softens, turning almost tender, as if he’s genuinely concerned for me, which only makes this worse. “What’s the point of living if you’re not truly alive?”
I close my eyes, trying to block out his voice, his presence, but it’s useless. He’s already under my skin, digging into the deepest parts of me, exposing everything I’ve tried so hard to keep private.
But I can’t break. Not here, not now.
“Tell me where Anna Lee is.” I open my eyes, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, unrelenting. “All right. I’ll tell you. But remember this—you can walk away now, but you’ll never escape what’s inside you. One day, you’ll have to face it. And when you do, you’ll remember this moment, and you’ll know that I was right.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and ominous as he shifts in his chair, the chains rattling softly. “The girl is being held in an old warehouse on the outskirts of town near the industrial district, just off Route 17. You’ll find it past the abandoned train yard, where the tracks split off into dead ends. She’s alive. For now.”