9. Layla

9

LAYLA

My cubicle mate, Ethan, is hunched over his computer and typing like a madman when I walk into our office.

"Morning, Layla," he says without looking up from his screen. "If you hear me talking to myself today, just ignore it. I'm debugging code, not slowly losing my mind. Well, at least that's what I keep telling myself."

I smile when I take my seat next to him. "Got it. If I hear any arguments, should I side with you or the other you?"

He grins, his glasses reflecting the scrolling code. "Always side with the me that's winning. It's good for morale."

As I stare at my black screen, my stomach churns. Somewhere in this sea of data hides the secret AI responsible for my current predicament. What else does it know? What else is it capable of?

Sensing my wary study, Ethan finally looks up, his forehead puckering.

"Rough night? You look like you've been battling some serious code. Or a dragon. Though I guess in our world, bad code is the dragon. "

I huff in amusement. "Let's just say I had a night of intense ... Netflix bingeing. You know, the kind where you have to keep reminding yourself that sleep is actually a necessary human function."

"Ah, the Netflix vortex. Dangerous territory. I once watched an entire series about hacking into government databases. For research purposes, of course."

"Of course. Purely academic."

I force myself to wake up my computer and act like this is another normal Wednesday and not another day I've managed not to get killed. My furtive glances above my computer to check for any sign of danger might give me away, though.

Despite my nerves, returning to work was intentional. As tempting as it is to disappear and assume a new identity, I don't have the money for it. I barely have enough to cover my current cost of living. I can't suddenly quit and run underground, mostly because I wouldn't know the first way to do that. Instead, I scampered back to my home like a spooked possum since I didn't know what else to do after my watcher bluntly explained that Mafia people wanted me dead.

Which he then assured me would never happen because he's deigned himself my stalker. No, sorry, protector.

This very large man has invaded my home, chased me down in a forest, terrified me, yet I keep returning to the time he saved me, and I finally got a good look at him.

Because yes, I've done the math.

He was a good two heads taller than me but lean in the most lethal way. Same with my watcher. In the forest, he was dressed entirely in black tactical gear. The thin material covered his arms and enhanced the ridges of muscle under his skin. His hands hung loosely by his sides, but his fingers curved in a way that could strike at any moment. His face was partially obscured by a plain black ball cap, pulled low over his brow, with a hood from his shirt covering the rest, but it wasn't enough to hide the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jawline.

I wasn't afraid of his scar during the day, like I should've been, and what it could represent. The scar somehow adds to his allure, a flawed perfection. In fact, I can't picture him without it, though there must have been a time when he was flawless.

He's a predator, and I'm his prey, yet part of me yearns to close the distance, to understand the man behind the scar, the gear, and the tormented stare.

Maybe he's lying, and no one is after me. It's been three days—five since I recorded a conversation that's changed my life—and nothing's happened. Maybe he's cornering me for his own sadistic pleasure and said the name "Morelli" as a red herring. As soon as I looked it up, there was only one Morelli family to be concerned about—the most vicious Mafia on the West Coast.

However I want to label it, my new stalker is both the most terrifying and compelling person I've ever encountered.

"Want some?"

Ethan shoves a bag of gummy worms in my face so unexpectedly that I yelp.

"Whoa. You okay?" Ethan's warm brown eyes, magnified by his thick lenses, blink at me with concern.

"Yes, just…" I rub between my brows. "Sleep deprived."

"Then you absolutely need some. I find it helps with the post-Netflix brain fog. Or any brain fog, really."

I force a smile and reach for a few gummy worms. They're sour and sweet, and the taste is a welcome distraction from the constant fear boiling inside me. My gaze drifts to the window. But as I chew, I can't help but think about the dark predator who has taken an interest in me. I can feel his eyes on me even when he's not there—and not just electronically.

But I can't let myself get distracted. I need to stay focused on my survival, on finding a way to protect myself.

I take another handful of gummies and turn back to my computer, determined to keep working. I'll have to be cunning, strategic, and careful. I'll have to use all my skills to stay one step ahead and gain any information on this AI that I can.

Information is power, after all. I'd like to know more about what's so important that it brought a stalker to my doorstep and the Mafia clipping at my heels.

"Hey, Layla," Ethan says. "Did you know I almost cracked that new encryption algorithm yesterday? I swear, it's like a digital fortress."

I smile despite the heaviness in my chest. "That's impressive. Maybe the CIA will finally realize what they're missing out on."

Ethan laughs, a sound full of genuine warmth. "One day, Layla. One day."

He's so unaware of the poison lurking within our own workplace. I watch him, wondering if his unrealized dreams of CIA cybersecurity would make him a confidant or place him in danger too.

Throughout the day, I play my part to perfection. Smiles, nods, casual chats by the coffee machine. But beneath the surface, I'm on high alert, scanning every email, every document for anything that might shed light on the Oracle project.

My eye keeps going to Dawson's office, his door closed and lights off. It's almost time to leave, and he hasn't made it in. In fact, he hasn't been in for the past two days.

I'd worry about it if he weren't such a smarmy, shady asshole.

I exit the office when the sun almost dips below the horizon and head to my car. There's a thickness to the air as the burden of another day of uncertainty clings to me.

I reach for the door handle on the driver's side, sensing something out of place even before the door swings open. It's the faint scent of cologne, a musk that doesn't belong here, but my nose tingles with recognition.

It's not cologne. My brain only thinks it is because it's so inviting: earth, salt water, fresh male exertion.

I've smelled him before.

My heart races as I slide into the driver's seat, and there it is—a small, velvet pouch resting on the passenger seat as if waiting for me. The fabric is a rich, deep crimson, its hue reminiscent of fresh blood. My curiosity piqued, I reach for the pouch with trembling fingers, feeling a shudder run through me as the soft material glides over my skin. It's unexpectedly heavy in my palm.

My curiosity, mingled with a sense of foreboding, nudges me to loosen the ribbon.

Inside, I find a jar, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand but large enough to hold something … liquid.

Lifting it, I peer through the glass, using the lowering sunset's rays to illuminate the?—

"Jesus fuck !"

The curse flies out of my mouth at the same time I release the jar. Just as fast, another curse flies out, and I scramble to catch it.

The last thing I need is pickled human remains staining my interior.

Yes, pickled remains.

Floating in the clear liquid is a square of skin, a tattoo my brain processed enough to understand it was a tattoo before I wanted it out of my hands .

I catch my breath, my heart deciding to slow down, too, then lift the jar back to my eyeline.

The ink illustrates something Celtic maybe, or Viking— why do I even care?

Disgusted, I shove the jar back in the velvet pouch. In doing so, a slice of pain hits my finger. I've brushed against the sharp edge of a piece of paper.

I want to cry.

Instead, I pull out the small, folded rectangle and read.

Layla,

This skin is your trophy. His screams, my gift to you.

Your name is on too many lips.

Next time, I might not be there to paint the walls red for you.

Your Scythe

"Oh, good," I say in a high-pitched voice bordering on a mental breakdown. "He's given himself a pet name I can call him."