Chapter 3 - Fever Dreams
When I rushed back to the office, Gabriel was thrashing on the cot. His skin was pale, drenched in sweat, and burning with a severe fever. Infection had set in fast.
“Elena...” he muttered, his voice raw with grief. “Elena, take them. Run.”
“Gabriel, hey, look at me,” I said, grabbing his shoulders to pin him down. “It’s Clara. You’re in the bakery.”
His grey eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. For a terrifying second, his hand shot out and gripped my throat. I couldn't breathe.
“Gabriel!” I choked out.
He blinked, the fog clearing, and he instantly released me, looking horrified. “I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought I was Silas,” I coughed, rubbing my neck. “You have a massive fever. I need antibiotics, and I need baby formula. I have to make a run to the pharmacy.”
“No,” he rasped, trying to sit up. “It’s too dangerous. They’re watching the streets.”
“If I don't go, you die of sepsis, and your kids starve,” I said firmly. “I know these alleys better than your thugs do. Keep them quiet.”
May you like
I grabbed my coat and left. The Chicago wind whipped my face as I navigated the backstreets, paranoid that every shadow was a hitman. I made it to the pharmacy, bought amoxicillin, bandages, and newborn formula. But as I swiped my debit card, the cashier gave me a weird look.
I glanced out the window. A black SUV was idling across the street. The license plate was covered. They had found me.
