This is Not a Sequel: Chapter 9
Lady read in bed like she always did.
The tablet came up in night mode: wide margins, soft text, a progress bar waiting at the bottom like a pulse. Battery: 100%. She’d charged it earlier. She remembered doing that.
Lady didn’t choose a book so much as she chose a temperature.
Fantasy when she wanted distance. Horror when she wanted something else to be afraid of. True crime when she needed the comfort of cause and effect, because in true crime there was always a reason, even if it was a bad one.
Ripp lay in the bedroom doorway, half in and half out, facing the hall. His bell didn’t move.
She tapped Continue.
For a split second, the header blinked, like a title trying to load and failing.
Then the page settled.
The text began partway down, like she’d been dropped into something already in motion.
Listen. Put this down. I’m serious. Close the book, walk away, pretend you never saw it.
Lady scrolled once. Then stopped. Her thumb hovered.
Ryder rolled over. The mattress dipped. The text didn’t pause.
I can feel you still here. Your eyes moving across the page. The weight of your attention like a hand pressing down on my chest.
Ryder’s breathing evened out. The room darkened around the tablet’s glow.
But you’re not going to stop, are you?
Ripp’s ears flicked once, fast and sharp.
Lady read until her eyes blurred.
It was a slow, heavy pressure. Like when Ripp kneaded the blanket and took his time about it.
Her phone buzzed again in the dark.
Lady didn’t reach for it. If she looked, she’d have to remember why it mattered, and remembering felt like work.
Her thumb hovered over the glass, caught between lines.
Then it moved again.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed but it didn’t help.
Her eyelids dipped. Not slowly. Not like sleep. Like a switch.
When her eyes opened again, the room was gray with early morning light.
The tablet lay face-down on the nightstand.
Her glasses were folded beside it, too neatly. Her thumb ached, like it had been working.
She turned the tablet over.
The words: THE END? sat at the bottom of the page, waiting.
In the corner, the battery icon was red. 12%.
Lady stared at it until her stomach tightened.
She didn’t remember finishing.
She didn’t remember any of it.
She backed out and scrolled to a folder she didn’t remember organizing. The file names were neat, consistent. Dates aligned. Nothing stood out.
Until one did.
No punctuation. No subtitle. No cute little cover image.
THIS BOOK MAY KILL YOU
Lady opened it.
Simple formatting. Black on white. No dedication. No contents page. Just a block of text beginning partway down the first page.
It wasn’t unfamiliar. That was the worst part. The voice fit her head too well. Clear. Direct. Not trying to impress anyone.
She scrolled.
Then stopped. Went back to the top. Like checking a street sign because you couldn’t believe you’d walked this far without noticing where you were.
THIS BOOK MAY KILL YOU.
It didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like a challenge.
Lady locked the tablet and set it facedown on the nightstand.
Then she got up and went to the kitchen for water.
Cold.
Simple.
She filled a glass and drank standing up.
The apartment was quiet. Early light slid along the wall and stopped, like it had been told where it was allowed to go.
On the counter, a takeout receipt lay curled like a dead leaf. Last night’s dinner. Ryder’s solution. Tiny print that used to make her squint until her eyes watered. Without thinking, Lady leaned in and read it.
Itemized lines. Tax. A long, unbroken string of numbers. Crisp as if it had been printed an hour ago.
She blinked.
Read it again, slower, because sometimes your eyes played tricks when you were tired and sometimes they didn’t.
Everything stayed sharp.
Cold water sat in her mouth and she hadn’t swallowed it yet. She realized that late, like a bruise you only noticed when you touched it.
She hadn’t put her glasses back on.
She brought the receipt closer. Then farther away. Covered one eye. Then the other.
Not better.
Perfect.
She only wore the glasses to read. That was the rule. A small rule, but hers.
Now that rule was gone.
It didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like someone had changed a setting while she slept, the way Ryder changed the thermostat without asking and then acted like it had always been that temperature.
When she came back to the bedroom, the tablet screen had gone dark.
She picked it up.
The file was still open.
[← Previous Chapter] | [Next Chapter →]
🧨 Short Fuses:
🎧 Hidden Tracks:
Sister Christian
