Page 8 of Hunt Me
If that was her—if the ghost just became flesh—then everything changes.
She’s not content staying in cyberspace anymore.
She’s huntingmenow.
4
IRIS
Islip through the apartment door, adrenaline still fizzing through my veins like champagne bubbles.
“You’re smiling.”
Maya looks up from her laptop, suspicion immediate. She knows that expression—the one I wear after pulling off something particularly reckless.
“I might have done something.”
“Oh god.” She closes her laptop with exaggerated patience. “What did you do?”
I drop onto the couch beside her, unable to contain the grin. “I went to watch him.”
“Him? Ivanov him?”
“He’s been at that café near MIT every Thursday for six weeks. Same table, same espresso order, same?—”
“You’ve beenstalkinghim?” Maya’s voice climbs an octave. “Iris. Jesus Christ.”
“Researching.”
“That’s what serial killers call it.” She twists to face me fully. “You went to his regular spot? In person?”
“I wanted to see his face when he realized someone was watching.” The memory sends another thrill down my spine.“He was reviewing my breach patterns from Tuesday. Right there in public, completely absorbed. So, I just... sat there. Observed.”
“And?”
“He felt it. Looked up, started scanning the room. Found me.”
Maya’s expression shifts from concern to horror. “He saw yourface?”
“Just my mouth.” I pull my phone from my pocket, reviewing the café’s security footage I scrubbed from my end. “I kept my head angled down with my hair covering most of my profile. Then I left before he could get close.”
“You let him chase you?”
“Briefly.” I watch the exterior camera glitch I created—three perfect seconds of digital blindness. “Then I disappeared.”
“You’re insane.” Maya grabs my phone and watches the footage. “Completely, certifiably insane. What if he recognized you? What if he has facial recognition running on that feed right now?”
“He doesn’t have enough of my face for that.” I take the phone back. “Chin and lips aren’t enough for accurate matching. Not with the angle, the lighting, the hair obstruction.”
“But he knows you’rerealnow. Physical. In Boston. Blonde.”
“Maybe blonde.” I run fingers through my platinum hair. “This could be a wig for all he knows.”
“Could it be?”
“No.”
“Iris!”
