Page 107 of Beneath the Surface

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not hurrying.

Someone wasn’t running. Wasn’t searching frantically. They were walking with purpose. With certainty.

Someone who knew exactly where they were going.

Someone looking for her.

Quinn’s paralysis broke. She moved to her bedroom door on legs that felt disconnected from her body, pressed her back against the wall beside it. The wallpaper was textured under her shoulders—rough, familiar, real. Her phone was clutched in her hand but her fingers wouldn’t work right. Wouldn’t coordinate. Couldn’t dial. Couldn’t press the buttons.

The screen went dark from inactivity, plunging her back into shadow.

More footsteps. Coming down the hallway now.

One at a time.

The third step from the bathroom—the board that always creaked. She heard it groan under weight.

Measured steps. Not hurrying. Not rushing.

Whoever it was knew she was here. Knew she had nowhere to go. Was taking their time.

The casual confidence of a predator who’d already cornered their prey.

Quinn looked around wildly for a weapon. Something. Anything.

But there was nothing. Just the dresser with the sticky drawer, the bookshelf full of young adult novels, the rocking chair in the corner where her grandmother used to sit and read to her.

Nothing heavy. Nothing sharp. Nothing useful.

The footsteps grew closer.

Paused.

Quinn held her breath, her lungs burning, not daring to make a sound. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure whoever was out there could hear it—that rhythmic thunder that seemed to shake her entire chest.

The hallway floorboards creaked. Once. Twice.

Then the footsteps moved toward her room.

Closer.

She could hear breathing now. Imagined a man. Steady. Controlled.

Closer.

Quinn’s vision was starting to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges. She needed to breathe but couldn’t, her body locked in place by pure terror.

The doorknob turned.

The brass was old and loose, and Quinn heard every sound it made—the soft rattle, the click of the mechanism disengaging, the whisper of metal on metal.

Quinn’s scream died in her throat, strangled by fear, as the door swung open with a soft creak and a man stepped inside.

Big. Over six feet, broad-shouldered, moving with the controlled grace of someone trained in violence.

Professional. Wearing all black—tactical pants, long-sleeved shirt, gloves. A ski mask covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible. Dark eyes. Cold eyes. Empty of anything human.

In his right hand, held with casual competence, a syringe.