Sunfail Read Free

more.
    Nothing.
    She waited, listening, then finally slipped out through the narrow gap into the hall. She pulled the door shut behind her rather than let the hydraulic arm close it automatically, making sure the catch didn’t click as it dropped into place. When she was sure it was safe, Sophie turned away from the office and moved quickly for the fire escape and the stairs. It was all about speed. Now that she’d made that call, she felt better about her decision.
    No looking back.
    Sophie exited the building fast, disappearing into the city like ghost.
    She wasn’t the only ghost.
    * * *
    Once the Hidden’s man was sure she was gone, he stepped out of the darkness.
    “We were right,” he said, seemingly speaking to the empty room. “She’s turned. I’ll take care of her.” He raised a finger to his ear and terminated the call by pressing down on the earbud he wore, and followed Sophie out into the city.
    She wouldn’t get far.

CHAPTER ONE

    JACOB CARTER IGNORED THE PHONE.
    He was in the shower and he wasn’t about to fumble around the wet room looking for it. If it was important they’d call back. He wasn’t giving up the hot water—hard enough to get at the best of times, with the old building’s antique pipes filled with rust and a boiler barely able to service the five apartments it contained. These certainly weren’t the best of times. With the Dickensian rattle deep in the walls it wasn’t much of a stretch to say they were slowly creeping toward the worst of times. But it was worse for others out there. The New York winter was brutal. He had a roof that didn’t leak, and for a few more minutes at least, hot water on tap. There was food in the fridge, and, tucked away at the back, his Knicks bottle: an ice-cold bottle of Bud he’d been saving since 1999.
    His dad had died the week before Latrell Sprewell broke the Knicks’ hearts with the miss that would have taken the series back to San Antonio and at least made a contest out of it. He was glad his old man hadn’t lived to see it. He died with hope in his heart, which is so much better than crushing disappointment. Jake had uncapped one of the two bottles and poured it out into the freshly turned soil, a commiseration beer, and made a promise to return with the last bottle to celebrate when the Knicks won the championship. One last drink with the old man. Maybe this would be the year? After all, hell might not exactly be freezing over—even if the city was—but some strange shit was happening out there. That had to mean something, right? He’d take any kind of sign he could get.
    He savored the hard pelt of near-scalding water as it stung his scalp through his close-cropped hair, massaging the suds in and rinsing them out again. Water streamed down his slick brown body, clinging to the muscular contours of his abdominals. He gave himself one more minute of bliss then reached out, twisted the faucet, and let the noises of the real world seep back in to the little cocoon of his bathroom.
    The first thing he heard was a gunshot.
    It was always the same.
    There’d be a siren too, soon, but the gap between the two was growing wider and wider these days.
    There were other sounds: people down there looking to get ahead just like they always had, but not knowing what that really meant these days.
    Jake toweled himself off, wrapped the wet towel around his waist, and moved to his bedroom. The phone was on the nightstand. The icons displayed one missed call and a message waiting.
    He checked the message, and then he checked it again just to be sure he hadn’t slipped and banged his head in the shower. Some people saw ghosts, Jake heard them. This one said, “ Jake . . . It’s me. ”
    Sophie Keane? Seriously? After ten fucking years?
    He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about her, and even then when she’d crept into his head it had been bad news. But then, bad news had always been their MO. Bad news and good sex. The worse the