Page 4 of Draevan

The building where she lived was protected by a small army of skilled ex-military personnel, defensive drones, and a state-of-the-art security system. It was the safest place in Manhattan and the surrounding area. Despite the frequent rebel attacks throughout the city, staying put in her penthouse was the best option, safer than attempting to evacuate.

Even if she evacuated, where would she go?

The entire country was at war. Some called it a civil war, while others likened it to a revolution. Cora thought it was a little of both. Entire towns and cities had fallen under rebel control, while some rebel factions were fighting one another. Other groups were focused on attacking the U.S. military, determined to overthrow the current administration. There seemed to be no single enemy anymore, no unified rebellion, no clear lines, just violence spreading across the country in every direction.

High above the city in her penthouse, a veritable fortress, Cora had never felt more alone or frightened in her entire life.

She also felt trapped.

Because even if it weren’t for the rebel attacks, she still wouldn’t be able to leave. She’d been holed up in her apartment for over a year now, scarcely interacting with anyone. Her groceries and other household items were delivered by the ex-military personnel who guarded the building, but even those brief interactions couldn’t assuage the loneliness in her heart.

She left the window and headed for her music room, wishing she could turn back time. She would make so many different choices. Maybe instead of chasing fame and becoming a pop star, she would’ve become a music teacher in a small town. She would’ve been happier—and safer—living out of the spotlight. Maybe.

With a sigh, she opened the door and entered her music room. It was one of the few places in the penthouse that still felt like home. A polished baby grand piano sat in the center of the room, its black surface gleaming under the lights. Several guitars hung from the walls or rested on stands, acoustic and electric, some battered and well-loved, others brand-new and expensive. A plush chair occupied the space beside a small amplifier, while a nearby music stand held sheet music and a notebook filled with half-finished lyrics.

Would she ever release another song?

Would she ever perform on stage again?

She liked the idea of recording more songs and sharing them with the world, but she wasn’t so certain she would ever feel comfortable on stage again.

Not with him still out there…

She didn’t know his name. Only his face. And the fear he incited whenever she saw him or was reminded of him.

Her stalker.

The stranger who’d broken into her childhood home and asked the new owners if they knew how to track her down. The stranger who’d shown up after her last show in Vegas, tased her bodyguards, and tried to pull her into a van before some bystanders intervened. The stranger who’d sent her threatening letters that also professed his love for her.

The stranger who kept eluding law enforcement.

Even the FBI didn’t know his name, though they suspected it started with the letter ‘M’ since he often signed his letters that way. Sometimes, the FBI sent her a few mug shots to look at, but it was never him.

He was still out there somewhere.

Watching. Waiting.

A shiver raced down her spine, and she tried to push away thoughts of the frightening man, the man who’d driven her into hiding just as the country had started falling apart.

She took a seat on the plush chair and gazed around her music room. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves crammed with music books, old vinyl records, and poetry collections. Framed photographs from her performing years hung between them, along with old concert posters. A microphone stood near the piano, though this room wasn’t really a recording studio. It was just a place where she could play, sing, and pretend, for a little while, that she was still the woman she’d once been. A woman who was filled with hopes and dreams, bursting with creativity, confidence, and strength.

These days, she felt like a shadow of her former self.

She didn’t like it, but she didn’t see a clear way out.

Not only did she feel trapped, but she felt abandoned and forgotten. So many people she’d once considered dear friends had simply stopped calling, and when she tried to initiate contact through an email, a text, or a phone call, she never received a response. When she’d gone into hiding, her manager had quit only a week later, claiming she was overreacting by hiding herself away, saying she was ruining her career and costing him a lot of money. And more recently, her record label had started threatening to drop her if she didn’t release some new songs and start performing again.

Just as she reached for her notebook, an explosion sounded in the distance, and the building briefly quaked. She returned to the front window, praying the most recent attack wasn’t too close, even though she’d been repeatedly assured that this building was impenetrable.

The sky was so hazy with smoke that she couldn’t see much. Just as she made to turn away from the window, a flashing advertisement carried by two drones caught her eye. At first, she couldn’t read the message on the screen, but finally the drones came closer to her window, allowing her to read the text clearly.

She gasped, and her stomach dropped to the floor.

Oh, God. No, no no. It couldn’t be.

The flashing advertisement read:

Hello, Cora. I’ve missed you.