Page 117 of A Witchy Spell Ride
Everyone froze. Even Reaper.
“What about him?” I asked, closing the distance until Banks could count the stitches on my cut.
“He was always around,” Banks said, words picking up speed. “But not just around. He asked questions. Wanted to knowwhere she lived, what she did. He used to hang back when you all cleared out for rides. Said he was ‘doing the bins’ or fixing lights.”
“He was in the clubhouse tonight,” Bones muttered. “I saw him.”
“Not for long,” Banks said. “He told me he had a job to do.”
A job.
My stomach dropped. The room tilted, not from surprise, but from the sick rightness of puzzle pieces snapping into place.
“Where?” I asked.
Banks shook his head, desperate. “I don’t know. I swear. He never tells me anything that matters. I’m not—” He caught himself. “I’m not in that deep.”
“Then why run?” I pressed.
His mouth worked. “Because it hurt,” he said finally, and it was a stupid, human truth. “Because watching her choose you felt like being skinned alive.”
Reaper’s eyes didn’t soften. “You run from pain; you run from me. You understand?”
Banks nodded like his neck might break.
Cross was already at the terminal, a metronome of keystrokes and contempt. “Access logs. West wing. Back stairwell.” He squinted. “Briggs clocked out at 10:19 p.m. Used the back stairwell. Disengaged the west wing security panel manually.”His fingers stopped. He looked up, face like a verdict. “Only two people have that code besides me—”
Selene. And Briggs.
Rattle spat a curse.
Reaper’s voice dropped an octave. “Find. Him.”
I didn’t wait. I was already moving.
“Hold up,” Cross snapped, palm up. “You want a direction, or you want to go howl at the moon?”
I stopped because he was right and because Selene would gut me for wasting seconds. My hands were shaking; I flexed them until the tremor found a home in my jaw instead.
“Run it,” I said.
Cross fed the beast, dragging footage across screens until the wall looked like a bad dream stitched from good cameras. “West hall feed goes dark at 10:21. Not looped. Power cut at the junction.” He flicked to another window. “Back door pops at 10:23. Sliver of shoulder. Weight profile matches Briggs. He’s carrying something. Dead weight on the left. She fought.” His voice went thinner on that, then snapped back. “Lot cam: white van we’ve seen before with another magnet. Driver never exits. Passenger, Briggs, loads and goes.”
“Plate?”
“Borrowed. Again.” Cross brought up street cams, traffic pings, shadows moving under sodium lights. “They head south, west. He knows where the blind pockets are. I’ve got threelikely destinations within five minutes that offer privacy and patience.”
“Pick one,” Reaper said.
“Cinderblock with a blue door,” Cross replied. “Thermal last week showed squatters. Tonight? Two signatures. One pacing, one still.”
I was already at the door.
“Ghost,” Reaper said, and I knew the word under the word.
“Alive,” I answered. I meant Selene. He meant Briggs. We were both lying and both right.
“Take Vex and Bones,” Reaper added. “I’ll bring Thorne and come up the back. Cross in our ears. Ash holds the gate.”
