Chapter Eight – The Chase
The air inside the library felt wrong.
Too still. Too watchful.
Claire crouched beside the lowest shelf in the archives, her knees aching against the hard floor. Dust clung to her palms as she pulled another file from the rack, the label faded and yellowed with age.
Fire Incidents — 2003.
Her throat tightened.
She flipped through reports with shaking hands. Dates. Addresses. Names redacted in thick black ink. Each page felt like a door she had locked years ago and sworn never to open again.
Then she saw it.
Her name.
Not fully erased. Just blurred enough to pretend it wasn't there.
CLAIRE H——, age 17.
Survivor.
Below it:
Daniel H—— — Missing. Presumed deceased. No remains recovered.
Her breath left her in a sharp gasp.
Presumed.
Not confirmed.
Her mind reeled. All her life she had clung to the certainty that there had been nothing left of him. That the fire had taken everything. That her guilt, however crushing, was final.
But this—
A sound behind her.
Soft. Unmistakable.
A shoe scraping tile.
Claire stiffened, every muscle locking. Slowly, she turned her head.
The aisle behind her stretched long and empty.
She swallowed and returned the folder to the shelf, forcing herself to move quietly, deliberately. She stood, brushing dust from her coat, and stepped into the next row.
The sound came again.
Closer.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"Claire."
The whisper of her name slithered down the aisle.
She spun around.
The man from the office lobby stood there, framed between shelves. His posture was casual, his expression measured, but his eyes were sharp—too alert.
"How did you know I'd be here?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her effort.
"I could ask you the same," he replied softly.
She backed away. "Don't come any closer."
He took one step forward.
That was enough.
Claire ran.
Bookshelves blurred past as she bolted toward the exit, knocking over a cart of returns that crashed to the floor behind her. The sound echoed, drawing attention, but she didn't stop.
She burst through the doors into the rain, breath ripping from her lungs as she sprinted down the steps and into the street. Water slicked the pavement. Her boots slipped, but she caught herself and kept running.
"Claire!" he called.
She didn't look back.
When she finally dared to stop, soaked and shaking beneath a bus shelter, the street was empty.
No man. No footsteps.
Only her reflection trembling in the glass.
Then, faint and impossible, she heard it again.
A child's voice.
"Claire…"
Her blood turned to ice.