Emerie's scream ripped through the stairwell.
The hand on her arm released at once. “Emerie—wait. It's me."
She stumbled back until her shoulder hit the wall, heart punching against her ribs. The yellow light above buzzed. Her fingers shook so badly she almost dropped her bag.
Jonathan stepped into view.
Nausea rolled up her throat—hot, sudden, physical. The sight of him didn't summon nostalgia; it made her skin crawl. In an instant she was back three years ago, dragged into a narrow alley, her back scraping brick as she fought until her arms gave out. She screamed Jonathan's name until her voice broke, waiting for him to appear—he never did. Later she learned why: he'd been with Linda. Since that night, she never wanted to see him again—never even hear him speak. His presence was a re
