Sheila’s hand remained frozen over the door handle.
Her pulse pounded so loudly she could barely hear the faint hum of the hallway lights outside her apartment. The woman’s voice echoed inside her head, sharp and deliberate.
Someone who knows why Atticus left you behind.
The words sliced deeper than Sheila wanted to admit.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, grounding herself the way she had learned to during high-pressure training observations. Panic clouded judgment. Panic made people careless. And careless people got hurt.
“Say your name,” Sheila called through the door, her voice steady despite the storm raging in her chest.
There was a brief pause.
“Elena Ward,” the woman answered.
The name meant nothing to Sheila. But something about the calm confidence in her tone made She
