Tyler's POV
The image burned into my skull—the way Alexis's eyes screamed for help, the blood on her lip, the way she was tied like a prop in someone else's twisted show. I shoved her phone into my pocket before Erica could see more.The photo of me sleeping sat on Olen's phone screen like a loaded gun aimed at my chest.
I didn't let her see it, but my pulse was pounding hard enough to make my vision swim. What use would it be if she sees me that way?
Someone had been close enough to stand over me. Close enough to breathe the same air.
That wasn't just an ordinary threat.
My pulse was pounding so loud I could barely hear the engine as I started the car.
Gravel spat from the tires. I just needed distance—space to think before I did something I couldn't take back.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the rearview.
Cole.
He was standing in the doorway of the place we'd just left, the shadows cutting his face in half. And then… he waved. Slow, deliberate, like we'd just run into each other at a bar, not in the middle of a hostage situation.
It wasn't a "you're screwed" kind of wave. It wasn't even mocking. It was detached. Almost too casual. And that made it worse.
For a second, I wondered if he didn't even know about the message. Which meant someone else was in this game with him. Could it be what I was thinking?
I pressed the gas harder, putting more distance between us.
Erica's voice was quiet. "What was that?"
"Nothing," I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
She let it sit for a beat before asking the real question. "Who is he?"
I didn't want to dig up this particular grave, but I owed her the truth. "Cole Henders. His dad—Mark Henders—was a ref. Big games. National level. NHL"
Her head tilted. "Was?"
"Yeah. Was. Two years ago, my team beat Cole's in the semis. Next game, his dad's reffing. Calls felt wrong—biased. I lost it like I always do."
Her silence pulled the rest out of me. "I slammed him into the boards. Twice. He went down hard. Busted him up badly. I couldn't stop myself in front of all those people."
Erica's eyes narrowed. "That's… the blood?"
"Yeah. And the pride? His dad got suspended. Career ended. Cole quit hockey after that. Said he couldn't keep playing under the shadow of me ruining his family name."
I could still see the headlines in my head. The noise. The whispers in the locker room. The sponsors dropping off. My suspension.
Erica shifted in her seat, like she was weighing what I'd just told her against the Cole we'd seen tonight. "So you think he's doing this?"
I shook my head. "Not alone. That wave? Too calm. Like he's not the one pulling every string. Which means there's more than one person coming for us."
As if the universe wanted to prove my point, my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out.
Another message from the same unknown number.
You can't hide forever.
I turned the screen so she could see it. "See? This isn't just Cole."
"That wave seemed like he knew nothing about the text"
We drove in silence after that, both of us scanning the shadows along the road like something might lunge out at us. I wasn't taking chances tonight. Not with Erica in the car, and not with Alexis in their hands.
We made it to the safe house just past midnight. The safe house wasn't much to look at from the outside—a squat, weather-worn cabin crouched beneath the heavy boughs of spruce and pine. The wood siding was faded to a silvery gray, scarred by years of wind and winter, and the front porch sagged just enough to groan under the weight of every step. It sat at the end of a narrow dirt road, half-swallowed by the forest, with no neighbors in sight and the nearest cell tower miles away.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly tinged with cedar. The floors were old pine, polished by decades of boots and the slow creep of dust. A single fireplace dominated the living room, its stone hearth blackened from countless fires, and above it, a rusted set of antlers hung like a trophy. The furniture was mismatched—an old plaid couch slouched against one wall, a heavy oak table sat in the corner, and the armchairs looked like they'd been rescued from a thrift store in the 90s.
Every window had thick curtains, drawn tight. A single bare bulb lit the kitchen, throwing long shadows that stretched across the counters. The bathroom door stuck halfway before it opened with a reluctant creak.
The quiet was absolute here. No hum of city traffic, no neighbor's music bleeding through the walls. Just the occasional whisper of wind in the trees, the sharp pop of wood contracting in the cool air, and somewhere in the distance, the faint howl of a coyote. It was the kind of silence that could either soothe you… or make you feel like something was out there, listening.
Erica tried to sleep on the couch. I stayed by the window, phone in my hand, watching the tree line. Every sound felt louder out here—the creak of the walls, the wind in the branches, even my own heartbeat.
Somewhere between three and four, exhaustion dragged me under.
When the sun started to push through the blinds, my phone buzzed again. Not a message this time.
A link.
And the name in the corner of the screen was Alexis's.
The feed was grainy, the light dim, but Alexis was there—tied to the same chair, the same smear of blood on her lip. Her eyes darted around before locking on the camera.
"Tyler," she said, her voice shaking, "I'm okay—" She paused, eyes flicking to something off-screen, like she was being told what to say. "They… they want you to come alone. No cops. No Erica."
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her breathing uneven. "They said if you don't… they'll kill me."
I stiffened.
The camera shifted slightly, just enough for a shadowy hand to rest on her shoulder. Her eyes went wide. "Tyler… they said if you come for me—"
She hesitated, choking on the words.
"They'll kill Erica first."
The video cut to black.