Chapter 1 - THE NUMBER ONLY FIVE PEOPLE KNEWRiley Dawson had been running for almost forty minutes before she realized there was blood on the screen of her phone.
Not much.
Just a thin smear from a fresh scratch across her knuckles.
She wiped it against her old gray denim jacket and kept moving.
New York swallowed people easily at night. Riley had once thought that was an advantage. Tonight every reflection in every storefront made her wonder whether someone was behind her.
She crossed another street without waiting for the light.
A horn screamed.
Riley did not stop.
Her ribs hurt. Her left shoulder ached where she had hit a metal railing climbing out of the back window of Marissa Cole’s apartment.
But she was alive.
That was enough.
For now.
Her old smartphone showed nine percent battery.
Riley opened Contacts.
There was no name attached to the number.
There never had been.
Only:
EMERGENCY
Seventeen years old, and she had carried that number in one form or another for more than half her life.
First written on paper.
Then memorized.
Then saved in a phone Nathan Dawson had given her when she was a child.
Her father had made her repeat his words until she could say them perfectly.
“Only call him when you're truly in danger.”
Riley had asked:
“What kind of danger?”
Nathan had crouched in front of her.
“The kind where there’s nowhere left to run.”
At seven, she had imagined monsters.
At seventeen, she knew monsters rarely looked like monsters.
They wore expensive coats.
Carried identification.
Knew where you went to school.
Knew which foster apartment you lived in.
Knew what your father had hidden ten years earlier.
Riley ducked beneath the awning of a closed pharmacy.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She rejected it.
Immediately another call.
Rejected.
Then a message appeared.
YOU CAN’T KEEP RUNNING.
Riley stared.
Another.
GIVE US WHAT NATHAN LEFT YOU.
Her hands started shaking.
Nathan had been dead for ten years.
And Riley still had no idea what they thought he had left.
She pressed the old emergency contact.
One ring.
Two.
A man answered.
No greeting.
“Who is this?”
Riley’s mouth went dry.
For years she had wondered what she would say.
Now nothing came.
The voice sharpened.
“How did you get this number?”
Riley looked behind her.
A black sedan slowed at the corner.
Her heart stopped.
“I—”
The car continued past.
She exhaled.
The man on the phone said:
“Listen carefully. You have ten seconds before I hang up.”
“My father gave it to me.”
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
Something changed on the other end.
“What is your name?”
“Riley.”
“Last name.”
“Dawson.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Where are you?”
Riley almost laughed.
Her father had told her to call this man.
He had never told her to trust him.
“No.”
The man said:
“If someone is following you, you don't have time to be difficult.”
“How do I know you’re him?”
A different voice came faintly from the background.
“Sir?”
Then the first man returned.
“You don’t.”
The answer surprised her.
No promises.
No attempt to manipulate her.
“Give me a public location,” he said. “Stay where there are cameras and people. Someone will come.”
“Who?”
“A man named Grant Holloway.”
Riley’s stomach tightened.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you called the number for nothing.”
The line disconnected.
Riley stared at screen.
Six percent.
Twenty minutes later, a black SUV stopped outside a twenty-four-hour diner.
A muscular man in a fitted black suit stepped out.
He did not approach quickly.
He stopped several feet away.
“Riley Dawson?”
She backed toward diner door.
“Grant Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
He held up his phone.
Her screen rang.
The same secret number.
Grant said:
“You can stay inside. You can bring an employee outside. You can call the police if that makes you feel safer.”
Riley studied him.
“You work for Dominic Vance?”
Grant's expression barely changed.
But there.
The name meant something.
Riley had heard it before.
Everyone in certain parts of New York had.
Dominic Vance.
A man newspapers called businessman.
Police called suspected organized-crime figure.
Other people simply lowered their voices.
Riley suddenly wanted to run again.
“My dad knew him?”
“That’s what we're about to find out.”
Grant opened rear door.
Riley did not move.
He waited.
No grabbing.
No threats.
Finally she got in.
They drove thirty minutes.
Luxury restaurant.
Private entrance.
Security guards in black suits.
Riley’s worn clothing made her look like she had walked into another planet.
Grant led her into a private dining room filled with daylight from enormous windows.
At the end of a polished wooden table sat a sixty-year-old man with swept-back silver hair.
Charcoal suit.
Black shirt.
Expensive watch.
Crystal glass untouched beside him.
Dominic Vance looked at Riley's scars.
Her bruises.
Her exhausted eyes.
And showed absolutely nothing.
Grant took position behind him.
Dominic asked:
“How do you know that number?”
Riley remained silent.
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“Do you know what you called?”
She swallowed.
“My father said—”
“I didn't ask what your father said.”
His voice was quiet.
That made it worse.
“Only five people have ever had that number.”
Riley froze.
Dominic continued.
“Three are dead.”
He gestured slightly behind him.
“One is standing behind me.”
Grant did not move.
Dominic leaned forward.
“So before I decide someone sent you here to test me…”
His eyes locked onto hers.
“…tell me who gave it to you.”
Riley's voice came barely above a whisper.
“My father.”
“Name.”
Riley looked directly into the eyes of one of the most feared men in New York.
“Nathan Dawson.”
Dominic Vance went completely still.
The crystal glass in his hand stopped halfway to the table.
For the first time, Grant Holloway looked shocked.
Dominic slowly stood.
“Nathan?”
His composure disappeared.
“Your father is Nathan Dawson?”
Riley nodded.
Dominic crossed the distance between them.
“He’s alive?”
Riley’s throat tightened.
“No.”
Dominic stopped.
“They killed him.”
Something inside the older man seemed to collapse.
“When?”
“Ten years ago.”
Dominic stared as though she had spoken in another language.
Then Riley added:
“And now the same people are coming for me.”
Dominic finally looked properly at her scars.
Not as evidence.
As history.
His eyes traveled from the old pale mark across her cheek to the bruising on her arm.
When he spoke again, his voice shook.
“They did this?”
Riley said:
“Some of it.”
Dominic turned.
His fist struck the wooden table once.
Crystal glasses jumped.
Every bodyguard in the room froze.
Dominic roared:
“WHO?”
Riley opened her mouth.
May you like
And realized for the first time since she started running—
someone was finally angry about what had happened to her.
Related Stories
