EMMA
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a sick, flickering yellow energy, casting long, jittery shadows across the oil-stained concrete of the Cannon Street parking structure. It was Level 4—the graveyard level. My breath came in shallow, jagged hitches that bloomed like ghost-smoke in the freezing subterranean air.
I leaned against the driver’s side door of my battered car, my fingers numbly fumbling with my keys. I just needed to get inside. If I could get behind the wheel, I could drive until the city lights blurred into a singular streak of safety.
Clack.
The sound of a leather-soled shoe hitting concrete echoed from the far end of the ramp. It was a sharp, expensive sound. A sound that didn't belong in a place that smelled of stale piss and damp cement.
"Leaving so soon,
