The sleet hisses through the busted windowpanes of the abandoned mill, a sound like a thousand striking matches that never quite catch fire. It is 2:09 a.m. in Red Hollow, and the swollen creek roaring thirty feet below the rusted interior catwalk threatens to swallow every other noise in the cavernous space. I keep my steps light, testing the metal grating before committing my weight. The cold bites through the thin fabric of my dark jacket, settling deep into my bones, but my hands remain perfectly steady as I raise the small digital camera.
I hate this mill. I hate the smell of wet rot and decades-old grease, and I hate the memories that cling to the shadows like cobwebs. But the Hollow syndicate uses the hollowed-out generator housing at the far end of the catwalk as a dead drop for their secondary ledgers, and my handler needs the updated numbers.
I reach the housing and pry open the loose metal panel with the edge of my pocketknife. The ledger is right where it is supposed to be—a thick, leather-bound notebook smelling of damp paper and cheap cigars. I pull a small flashlight from my pocket, gripping it between my teeth, and begin flipping through the pages, snapping photos of the handwritten columns.
My breathing is slow, measured. I am a ghost. I am Sage Ghent, night janitor, invisible and harmless. The name is a stolen coat, heavy with someone else’s blood, but it keeps me warm enough to survive.
I finish the last page, snap the cover shut, and slide the ledger back into the dark recess. I am about to close the panel when the beam of my flashlight catches something wedged behind a rusted pipe near the floor grating.
It is a crumpled manila envelope, half-frozen to the metal.
I freeze. The syndicate does not leave trash behind, and they certainly do not leave sealed envelopes in the same stash as their ledgers unless it is a message.
My gloved fingers brush the stiff paper. I pry it loose from the ice with a sharp crack that makes me wince. The flap is sealed with dark red wax, stamped with the unmistakable jagged pinecone crest of the Hollow syndicate. Marisol Kent’s preferred method of intimidation.
I should leave it. I should drop it into the roaring creek below and walk away. But my heart is already beating a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs, and my instincts—honed by years of forged signatures and narrow escapes—scream that ignorance is a luxury I cannot afford.
I break the wax seal.
Inside is a single, thick sheet of paper and a small, clipped photograph. I pull them out, shining the flashlight over the documents.
My breath leaves me in a single, sharp exhale.
It is a marriage license. Pristine, official, and already filled out. But it is the names on the heavy cream paper that make the blood drain from my face.
On one side, written in an impeccably forged script that mirrors my own careful handwriting: Sage Ghent.
On the other side, in stark, bold print: Winter Pereira.
I stare at the empty signature lines beside Winter’s name. The world tilts on its axis, the roar of the creek suddenly deafening. I look at the small covert photograph clipped to the corner of the license. It is a candid shot of a man walking down a rain-slicked city street. He has dark hair, sharp features, and a lethal, sardonic curve to his mouth even when he is just looking at the pavement.
Winter Pereira. A federal operative. A man I have never met, but whose name I recognize from the encrypted files Imogen occasionally pulls from the ether.
My hands begin to shake. The illusion of my safety, of my anonymity under a dead man’s name, shatters like thin ice. The syndicate knows. Marisol knows. And someone has scripted me into an intimate, binding role beside a stranger, tying my forged identity to a federal agent.
The empty signature line next to Winter’s name pulls me down into the dark waters of my own memory. Five years ago. A different room, a different piece of paper. Signing my own forged death certificate, the pen heavy in my hand, while a federal agent—the real Ghent—bled out on the floor just feet away. The smell of copper and ink. The way his breathing stopped just as I dotted the final ‘i’.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the sudden, violent wave of nausea. If I sign my name to another person, they die. That is the rule. That is the curse I carry.
I shove the license and the photo back into the envelope and fold it in half, stuffing it deep into the inner pocket of my jacket. I cannot burn it here. I cannot leave it. I have to take it with me.
I secure the loose panel over the ledger stash and rise, my knees trembling slightly. I sweep the catwalk with my flashlight one last time, ensuring I have left no trace, and then I begin the long, treacherous walk back to the ground floor.
Every shadow looks like a man with a gun. Every gust of wind sounds like a dying breath. But I clear the mill without being seen, slipping out through the rusted loading bay doors and into the freezing rain.
The image of that empty signature line follows me all the way back to town, burning a hole against my chest.
The Red Hollow sheriff station is a sterile, fluorescent-lit purgatory after midnight. The smell of bleach and old coffee permeates the air, and the steady ticking of sleet against the high, narrow windows provides a monotonous soundtrack to the graveyard shift.
I lean hard into the mop handle, pushing soapy water across the linoleum floor of the main bullpen. My gray janitor uniform is slightly too large, hiding the tense lines of my body. The envelope is locked in my locker down the hall, but I can still feel its weight, like a phantom limb.
“Missed a spot, Ghent,” Deputy Miller mutters as he walks past, clutching a thermal mug.
“I’ll get right on that, sir,” I reply, my voice a flat, respectful monotone. I give the floor an extra, meaningless swipe.
The station is mostly empty. A sleepy dispatcher at the front desk, Miller, and one other deputy in the breakroom. I need to upload the ledger photos to the handler team’s secure server.
I finish the hallway and push my yellow bucket toward the copy room, which houses an old, networked terminal that Imogen rigged with a backdoor months ago. I slip inside, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the hallway, and pull the SD card from my pocket.
I am halfway through the upload when the elevator at the end of the hall dings.
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Heavy, deliberate footsteps step off the elevator. They do not sound like a deputy. They sound like someone who owns the building.
I quickly minimize the upload screen, pull up a dummy maintenance log, and grab a rag, pretending to wipe down the glass of the copy machine.
Through the crack in the door, I see him.
He strolls into the bullpen, flashing a leather credential case at Miller. He is taller than he looked in the photograph, with broad shoulders hidden under a dark, tailored jacket. His face is exactly the same—sharp, arresting, with that dangerous, sardonic grin that doesn’t quite reach his dark, watchful eyes.
Winter Pereira.
My breath hitches. He is here. In the flesh.
“Winter Pereira. I’m consulting on the county task force,” he drawls, his voice a smooth, low rumble that carries easily across the room. “Sheriff expecting me?”
“Uh, yes sir. He’s in his office,” Miller stammers, clearly intimidated by the sudden influx of federal authority.
Winter’s gaze sweeps the room. It is a slow, predatory assessment, taking in the exits, the sightlines, and finally, the cracked door of the copy room.
I hold perfectly still, but his eyes lock onto the gap. I know he cannot see me clearly in the shadows, but I feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
He murmurs something to Miller and then starts walking. Not toward the sheriff’s office. Toward the copy room.
Panic flares, hot and bright in my chest. I cannot run. I am trapped in a ten-by-ten room with a humming Xerox machine and a half-finished covert upload.
I grab the Windex and spray the glass, wiping vigorously as the door swings open.
Winter steps inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. The room instantly feels too small. He smells of clean aftershave, cold rain, and something darker—gun oil and adrenaline.
“Late night for maintenance,” he says mildly, leaning against the doorframe, blocking my only exit.
“Floors get dirty at night too, sir,” I say, keeping my head down, my voice pitched to its usual dry, janitorial cadence.
“I suppose they do.” He steps closer. The space between us vanishes.
I turn to face him, keeping the rag in my hands as a useless shield. Up close, his eyes are a startling, turbulent gray, and they are fixed on me with unnerving intensity.
“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for me, “I’ve been looking at a lot of paperwork lately. County records, property deeds. Death certificates.”
My pulse hammers against my throat. “I just clean the floors, sir. I don’t read the files.”
He steps into my personal space, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My back hits the edge of the copy machine. I am trapped.
Winter’s hand comes up. I flinch, expecting a blow, or a badge, but instead, his fingers lightly brush the collar of my uniform shirt. The touch is electric, sending a jolt of raw, unbidden heat straight down my spine.
“You’re trembling,” he observes softly.
“I’m cold,” I lie, my voice barely a whisper.
His eyes darken. He steps entirely into my space, his body pressing lightly against mine, caging me against the machine. The sheer, overwhelming physical presence of him short-circuits my brain. He lowers his head, his mouth hovering inches from my jaw. I can feel his breath on my skin, warm and even.
His hand slides down from my collar, trailing deliberately over my chest, stopping at my waist. His fingers slip under the hem of my gray shirt, brushing the bare skin of my stomach.
I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his forearms. I should push him away. I should scream for Miller. But the heat of his palm against my skin paralyzes me. It is an invasive, dominant touch, checking for a wire, checking for a weapon, but the friction of his rough calluses against my hip ignites a heavy, pooling desire in my gut that I have not felt in years.
My breath mingles with his. The air in the tiny room is suddenly thick, suffocating. I look up into his eyes, expecting to see cold calculation, but I see a flash of genuine, hungry heat mirroring my own.
For a split second, I think he is going to kiss me. His gaze drops to my mouth, his thumb stroking a slow, agonizing circle on my bare skin, sending a flush of heat up my neck. My lips part involuntarily.
Then, the moment snaps.
He pulls his hand back, stepping away with a smooth, practiced motion that leaves me swaying on my feet, entirely unmoored.
“Keep up the good work... Sam,” Winter says, his lethal grin returning.
He calls me by the wrong name. Deliberately. Testing me.
I swallow hard, forcing my face back into a blank mask. “It’s Sage, actually.”
“Right,” Winter says, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Sage. I’ll remember that.”
He turns and walks out of the copy room, leaving the door wide open. I collapse against the machine, my heart racing, my skin still burning where he touched me.
He knows. He knows exactly who I am, and he knows I am hiding. And worst of all, he knows how easily he can take me apart.
I turn back to the terminal, my hands shaking violently as I finalize the upload, pull the SD card, and scrub the system. By the time Winter disappears into the sheriff’s office down the hall, I am certain that the operative in the marriage license is now hunting the forger he believes lives behind this mop and badge.
The last hour of the shift stretches into eternity. I finish my rounds mechanically, my mind spinning in endless, terrifying circles. I retreat to the dim supply closet near the locker rooms, pulling the heavy door shut and turning on the single, swinging bulb overhead.
I pull the crumpled manila envelope from my pocket. My hands are still trembling as I slide the marriage license out and stare at it under the harsh yellow light.
Sage Ghent.
Winter Pereira.
I trace the empty signature line with my thumbnail. Marisol orchestrated this. She is tightening the noose, forcing my hand. She knows Caleb would sell me out to keep the family land safe, and she knows I cannot run without exposing the handler team. But why Winter? Why tie me to the exact federal agent who is currently tearing through Red Hollow’s secrets?
Is it a trap for him, or a trap for me?
I look at the clipped photo of Winter. I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my waist, the sudden, terrifying spike of desire that cut through my panic. He is dangerous. He is a live wire, and if I let myself get tangled up in him, one of us is going to burn.
The memory of the dead fed—the real Ghent—floods my vision. The way the blood pooled on the floorboards. The way my own forged signature looked on the death certificate that bought my survival. I am a curse. Anyone bound to me on paper is marked for death.
I need to destroy this license. I need to burn it and scatter the ashes in the sleet.
I pull a lighter from my pocket and flick it open. The small flame dances, casting long, erratic shadows against the shelves of bleach and paper towels. I hold the corner of the heavy cream paper toward the fire.
But I stop.
If I burn it, I destroy the only piece of leverage I have. I destroy the proof of Marisol’s play.
I curse my own weakness, snapping the lighter shut and shoving the license back into the envelope, tucking it securely into my inner jacket pocket.
I grab my duffel bag and step out of the supply closet into the dim, quiet hallway. The storm is still pattering against the roof, the station finally settling into the deep, dead silence of 4:00 a.m.
I turn toward the exit, eager to disappear into the rain.
“Leaving so soon?”
I freeze.
Winter strolls out of the shadows near the locker room, his jacket unbuttoned, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He walks past me in the narrow hallway, moving with that same predatory grace.
He brushes close enough that I can smell the gun oil and clean aftershave again, the scent hitting me like a physical blow. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look at me.
But as he passes, he leans his head in, his lips inches from my ear, and murmurs, “Nice work with the paperwork, Ghent.”
The cadence of his voice—the specific, lilting emphasis he puts on the word paperwork—is not random. It matches the exact rhythm and intonation of my buried birth name. The name I haven’t spoken aloud in five years.
I stand completely paralyzed in the middle of the hallway, the envelope burning a hole in my pocket, as the heavy glass doors of the station swing shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cold.