Malcolm's grip tightened protectively, but his gaze swept the darkness with predatory focus. He inhaled deeply, his expression turning grave.

“Angie... I don't smell anything but rain and exhaust.”

The certainty in his voice made my own doubt scream. But the scent was already fading, slipping away like a taunt, leaving only the chilling possibility was the puppet master here, watching, or was my shattered mind now conjuring ghosts

“Just get me home,” I breathed, the last of my strength vanishing, along with the scent.

But the question, and the fear, lingered, carried in his arms all the way home.

Malcolm didn’t argue. He carried me the rest of the...