The abandoned warehouse loomed around Ivy like a ghost of her own making—cold, echoing, and full of shadows. It was the same place she'd come to once, weeks ago, for a secret meeting with that man her mother had recommended. Back then, it had felt like a place of possibility.
Now it was a tomb and a hideout for her.
She sat on the dusty floor, her back pressed to the cracked concrete wall, her knees drawn to her chest. Just a few feet from her, the blood-slick knife—the one that had ended her mother's life—lay in the dirt, catching the faint light spilling through a broken window.
Her eyes locked onto it and the memory of what had happened struck like lightning—sharp and searing.
