Page 2 of Cursed
But Sadie is more compelling.
She approaches the curb and checks her phone. An Uber, then. I hang back, positioning myself behind a parked delivery truck. Three minutes later, a silver Honda pulls up. She speaks to the driver before sliding into the back seat.
I memorize the license plate as they pull away, then walk quickly to where my Ducati waits in the shadows of the parking lot. The engine purrs to life beneath me, a far more satisfying sound than any human voice. Well, any voice that is, except hers.
I keep two cars between us at all times. Basic surveillance. The Honda takes the freeway exit toward the east side of the city, then winds through progressively quieter residential streets.
Finally, the car stops outside a renovated industrial building. Sadie steps out, exchanges words with the driver, then approaches the entrance. I cut my engine and coast to a stop half a block away, watching as she punches in a door code and disappears inside.
Her apartment. Her sanctuary from me.
I watch her building for several minutes, calculating. The lights in her apartment flicker on, third floor, corner unit. The desire to follow her up there and break in is clawing at me, but I shake my head.
Tonight isn’t the night for more. I’ve confirmed her residence; that’s enough.
I slide my phone from my pocket to check the time: 11:59 PM. As I’m about to pocket it again, the device vibrates in my palm, screen illuminating with a custom alert.
THE HOLLOW’S HUNT: 30 DAYS
The Hollow’s Hunt. Our elaborate game, our family tradition. Once a year, the four Blackwood brothers and eleven associates transform Purgatory into a labyrinth of pursuit. Each brother must choose one woman to participate as prey.
My brothers have their methods. Xavier typically selects women with political connections, viewing the Hunt as business mixed with pleasure, although this year is a twist since he’s invited his journalist posing as employee at Purgatory. Vane chooses based on pure physical attraction, while Knox gravitates toward those with artistic sensibilities.
I’ve always been more... particular.
I slide my thumb across the screen, opening the folder where I keep my surveillance notes. Images of Sadie appear—leavingher cybersecurity job, ordering coffee—always black, no sugar—working on her laptop in the park. Small moments captured through camera lenses and security feeds I’ve accessed.
She fascinates me. Based on my observations, her mind works like mine. Yet unlike me, she has a moral compass. I’ve watched her decline lucrative offers that crossed ethical lines. That contradiction intrigues me.
I start my motorcycle, the engine’s vibration traveling through my body as I cast one last glance at her building.
Sadie Reynolds.
The woman who speaks in code and hides behind firewalls. What would it be like to watch her run through our maze? To witness that brilliant mind confronting primal fear?
To have her completely at my mercy?
I pull away from the curb, decision made. In thirty days, the Hunt begins. And I know exactly who I’ll be pursuing.
2
SADIE
The cursor on my screen blinks as I type another line of code. I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tension that’s been building since I arrived at the office this morning. Something feels... off.
I glance up from my workstation, scanning the open-concept office. Nothing unusual occurs as my colleagues are focused on their screens, and there’s an occasional murmur of conversation, fingers tapping on keyboards. Even so, the sensation of being observed persists, like a phantom itch between my shoulder blades.
I return to my code, forcing myself to focus. This security patch needs to be completed by the end of the day, and I won’t let an irrational feeling derail my productivity. I’m not prone to paranoia—I deal in facts, patterns, evidence. There’s nothing concrete to suggest anyone’s watching me.
Still, I find myself adjusting my privacy screen on my display ensuring the best coverage leaving no chance for it to be seen from the hallway.
The break room is empty when I enter at midday. I unpack my lunch—a meal prep container with quinoa, roastedvegetables, and grilled chicken—and take a seat facing the door. Old habit. I always prefer to see who’s coming and going.
“There you are!” Jolene drops her lunch bag on the table and slides into the chair across from me. Her curly hair is pulled back in a messy bun today, her smile bright. “I’ve been buried in that financial sector firewall all morning. My brain is actual mush.”
“The Wellington account?” I take a bite of my lunch. “That system architecture is from the Jurassic period.”
“Exactly. Dinosaur code that should’ve been extinct ages ago.” She unwraps her sandwich, studies it for a moment. “So, did you see that email about the company retreat? Two days of ‘team building’ in cabins without decent Wi-Fi. Kill me now.”
