THE WATCHER
The Mercy Bridge was empty at 2:00 AM.
No cars. No pedestrians. No witnesses.
Vance parked his car at the crest of the bridge, the same spot where three women had parked before they died. The black water stretched below, cold and dark and hungry.
Maya sat in the passenger seat. Her hands were cuffed — plastic zip ties, tight enough to hurt. She couldn’t open the door. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight.
“Get out,” Vance said.
He opened her door. Pulled her out.
The wind was cold. It cut through her jacket, her skin, her bones.
“You’re going to walk to the railing,” he said. “You’re going to climb over. And you’re going to jump.”
“No.”
“It’s not a request.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I can. I’ve done it before.”
He pulled a small device from his pocket. A remote. He pressed a button.
Maya’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
A video call.
Danny’s face appeared on the screen.
“Mom—”
“Don’t hurt her.”
“I won’t. Not if you do what I say.”
Maya looked at the railing. At the water. At the dark.
“Walk,” Vance said.
She walked.