Cinnamon paced the length of Mia's small Brooklyn apartment, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the hardwood floor. Mia was hunched over her laptop, typing furiously, while her friend, a lanky guy named Ben with thick glasses, monitored a second screen.
"He's bouncing his signal," Ben muttered. "Using a burner phone and a VPN. I can't pin him down."
"He was right behind me," Cinnamon said, hugging her arms around herself. "He was right there."
Her phone pinged.
The sound made all three of them jump.
Cinnamon stared at the device on the coffee table like it was a bomb. The screen lit up. A text from an unknown number.
It was a link.
"Don't open it," Mia warned.
"I have to," Cinnamon whispered. Her trembling finger tapped the glass.
A video player opened. It was a livestream.
The camera was shaky, handheld. It showed a view from a dizzying height. The wind was roaring into the microphone, creating a distorted, howling noise. The camera panned down to show feet in worn sneakers standing on the very edge of a concrete ledge. Below, tiny cars moved like ants.
Then the camera turned around.
Chase Miller's face filled the screen. He looked gaunt, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his hair matted. But his smile was the same terrifying, beatific grin from her nightmares.
"Hello, Angel," he crooned. The wind whipped his words away, but the intent was clear. "I missed you."
"Oh god," Cinnamon covered her mouth.
"I'm at the Watts Hotel," Chase said, gesturing to the giant neon 'W' sign behind him. "Your fiancé's shiny new toy. It's a long way down, Cinnamon."
The view count on the stream was climbing. 500. 1,000. 5,000. Comments were scrolling by faster than she could read. Is this real? Jump! Call the cops!
Chase pulled a box cutter from his pocket. He clicked the blade out. "You have twenty minutes. Come to the roof. Alone. If I see cops, I jump. If I see that suit-wearing prick Arturo, I jump. And I'll leave a note saying the Watts family drove me to it."
"He's insane," Mia said, grabbing Cinnamon's arm. "We're calling 911."
"No!" Cinnamon pulled away. "You heard him. If he jumps from the Watts Hotel... if he blames Arturo..." The IPO. The SEC investigation. A suicide linked to the family could destroy everything. Her leverage. Her escape.
"Who cares about Arturo's company right now?"
"I do!" Cinnamon screamed. "It's my leverage! It's my future! And... I need a confession. I need this to end, permanently."
She grabbed her coat. "I'm going. Mia, is your guy in position?"
"He's on the roof of the adjacent building with a parabolic mic and a long-lens camera," Mia confirmed, her face pale. "But Cin, this is crazy."
"Crazy is letting him control the narrative," Cinnamon retorted, her eyes hard. "He wants an audience. I'll give him one."
She was already out the door.
She hailed a cab, shouting the address of the hotel. In the back seat, she watched the stream. Chase was reciting a poem now, something about blood and wings. It was garbled and sick.
Mia was calling Carter on the other line. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she hissed.
Cinnamon arrived at the hotel. A crowd had already gathered, necks craned upward, phones recording. A few police cruisers were just arriving, sirens wailing, but they were setting up a perimeter on the ground.
Cinnamon pushed through the crowd. A uniform cop tried to stop her.
"Ma'am, stay back!"
She ripped off her sunglasses. "I'm Cinnamon Taylor! He's asking for me! Let me through or he jumps!"
The cop hesitated, recognizing her from the gala photos. The hotel manager ran out, pale and sweating. "Ms. Taylor! Thank god. He's... he's on the penthouse roof."
"Take me up. Now."
They rushed her to the service elevator. As the doors closed, Cinnamon looked at her phone. The signal bars dropped to one, then zero. The livestream froze on Chase's laughing face.
High above the city, in the corner office of Watts Capital, Arturo's phone buzzed with a news alert.
BREAKING: Jumper on Watts Hotel Roof Demands Fiancée.
Arturo went still. The color drained from his face, leaving it a mask of pure, cold rage.
"Carter!" he roared, the sound echoing through the suite. "Get the chopper. Now!"
He dialed Cinnamon. Straight to voicemail.
He threw the phone against the wall. It shattered.
The roof door opened with a heavy groan against the wind. Cinnamon stepped out onto the gravel surface. The wind up here was ferocious, tearing at her clothes and hair.
Chase was standing on the ledge of the helipad, twenty feet away. He saw her and his face lit up.
"You came," he shouted over the wind. "I knew you loved me."
Cinnamon held up her hands, palms open. She subtly angled her body toward the adjacent building, ensuring Mia's operative had a clear line of sight. "I'm here, Chase. Just step down. Please. Let's talk."
"Talk?" Chase laughed. "We don't need to talk. We need to fly. We're going to be together forever, Angel. Just you and me."
He extended a hand toward her. The box cutter was in the other. "Come here. Take my hand."
Cinnamon took a step forward. Her legs felt like jelly. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to move closer. "Okay. I'm coming. Just put the knife down."
"No!" He waved the blade. "Come closer!"
She took another step. She was ten feet away. She could see the madness in his eyes.
Suddenly, a rhythmic thumping sound filled the air. It grew louder, vibrating in her chest. A shadow fell over them.
Chase looked up, screaming something inaudible.
A sleek black helicopter with the Watts logo on the tail rose up over the edge of the building, the rotor wash hitting them like a hurricane.
