Chasing Ghosts

HARDIN'S POV

The moment I slid behind the wheel, I pressed the ignition and the Bentley roared to life, a soft purr beneath my palms—but it didn’t calm me. Not today. Not after that meeting.

My skin still crawled with the memory of Beatrice Davis. Her perfume clung to the air like poison. Her voice echoed in my ears, saccharine and calculated. I’d dealt with vipers before. Hell, I’d partnered with some. But she wasn’t just dangerous—she was unhinged in a way I couldn’t quite place. Like a predator in a designer sheath dress, playing with her food before going in for the kill.

I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel as I pulled away from The Grand Echelon, the city unfolding before me in a blur of motion and noise. The sun had climbed higher now, streaking the buildings in gold, but the warmth didn’t reach me.

Not with everything swirling in my head.

Ariana. Beatrice. The flash. The file.

That goddamn file.

Project Seraphim.

Blackthorn Institute.

Two names that had landed in my lap like cursed relics—and ever since, they hadn’t stopped gnawing at me from the inside out.

My phone buzzed in the console beside me, dragging me from my spiral.

Unknown Number.

No. Not unknown.

Private Line – Carter.

My investigator.

I pressed the button on the console. “Carter,” I said, voice tight. “You have something for me?”

“Speaker’s on?” he asked first, voice clipped, all business.

“Yeah.”

I merged onto the highway, tires humming on the asphalt. “Talk.”

“I finished digging into the file you gave me. Seraphim and Blackthorn,” he began. “And I’m going to be straight with you, Hardin. There's nothing.”

My jaw tensed. “Define nothing.”

“I mean nothing, as in the kind of nothing that feels intentionally wiped. Seraphim, on paper, is an abandoned government R&D project—biotech crossover with AI, scrapped a decade ago. No funding. No trail. And Blackthorn Institute doesn’t even have a current license to operate. Just a shell now.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, scanning the road. “There’s no way something like that lands in my office unless someone wanted me to find it.”

“Exactly,” Carter agreed. “Someone wants you rattled. Wants your attention fixed somewhere cold and dead while they move in the shadows.”

“So you think it’s a decoy,” I said, my voice lower now. Deadlier.

“I know it is,” he replied. “I’ve been chasing ghosts all week. Every door leads to a brick wall. Every name is a dead man. And whoever did this? They were thorough. Clean. Professional-level erasure. If it wasn’t for that file, you wouldn’t even know those projects existed.”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Are you sure nothing ties back to my family?”

“Not a damn thing,” he said. “No Richards mentioned in any documentation. No offshore transfers. No subsidiaries. Whoever sent that to you is playing mind games, Hardin.”

“And if I told you I feel like someone’s watching us?”

“I’d believe you,” he said without hesitation. “But I’d also say that’s exactly what they want.”

I exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “Keep digging. If anything surfaces—even a whisper—I want to know immediately.”

“You’ll be the first call I make.”

The line went dead.

But the silence that followed was worse.

I drove for a few more minutes, pretending I could let it go.

Pretending the call gave me closure.

It didn’t.

Something still felt… off.

I didn’t believe in gut instincts. I believed in evidence. In proof. But this? This wasn’t paranoia. It was pressure. A slow, tightening noose I couldn’t see, only feel.

My foot pressed down harder on the accelerator.

A sudden beep drew my gaze to the rearview mirror. A black SUV had switched lanes and was tailing me too close. I watched it for a full minute. No license plate on the front. Tinted windows. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

My heart kicked faster.

Another turn.

Another mirror glance.

Still there.

I switched lanes again.

So did they.

Goddamnit.

I flicked on my indicator, pulled off onto the next exit. A random one. Not the way back to the office.

The SUV followed. This again?

My mind went cold. Calculating.

I didn’t slow down.

Instead, I made a sharp left, speeding down a narrow road behind a row of derelict buildings. Industrial and quiet—out of the public eye.

The SUV turned too.

This wasn’t a coincidence anymore.

I gritted my teeth, cutting the wheel hard and pulling the car into a sudden U-turn, tires screeching. The Bentley spun around perfectly, and now I was facing them. They jerked to a stop halfway down the block.

We stared at each other—two cars idling in the street like opponents in a standoff.

I didn’t move.

Neither did they.

Then—just like that—the SUV reversed, peeled off down the street, and vanished into the maze of buildings.

I sat there, chest heaving.

That wasn’t paranoia.

That was real.

Someone was watching. Tracking.

And they were bold enough not to care if I noticed.

I pulled out my phone again, fingers flying across the screen.

To Carter:
Just got tailed. Black SUV. No plates. Vanished before I could follow. Start checking cameras in South Industrial District, west side. Ten minutes ago. Look for a black 2022 Yukon.

I didn’t wait for a reply.

I pulled out, tires squealing, and headed straight back toward the city center.

I needed to breathe. I needed clarity.

I needed… Ariana.

I called her, but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Call me. As soon as you can. Please.”

I ended the call and stared ahead, the road a blur again.

What the hell was happening?

Project Seraphim. Blackthorn Institute. A ghost chase, Carter said.

But if it was nothing, why did it still feel like it was everything?
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