Back at my apartment, the weight of Lila's breakdown and the morning's rooftop drama hung heavy. She was supposed to be discharged, but the doctors wanted her under observation after her near-dive off the hospital roof. Tim volunteered to stay with her, which was fine by me—someone needed to keep an eye on her, and his ghost-whisperer routine was better than nothing. Poor Lila. She thought Mike was her ride-or-die, only to find out his heart was subletting space to Claire. That kind of betrayal stings worse than a paper cut doused in lemon juice.
Ryan was rifling through the stuff I'd hauled back from the studio, starting with Emily's belongings. Besides that creepy leather diary, there wasn't much tying her to the death game. "You ever think someone planted this diary after Emily died?" Ryan asked, flipping through its occult-scribbled pages. "We searched her desk the day she was killed—nada. This feels like a setup to throw us off."
Ryan's cop brain was sharper than a tack. He'd climbed the precinct ladder fast, thanks to a memory like a steel trap and eyes that missed nothing. If he said the diary wasn't there before, I believed him. "Why frame Emily?" I muttered, my head spinning. "She's already dead. What's the point of pinning this on her?"
Ryan shrugged, his brow furrowed like a plowed field. "Could be misdirection. The real puppet master wants us chasing ghosts—literal or not." He tossed the diary aside and checked Mike's stuff—zero game-related clues. "Let's hit the net café Max visited before he bought it. Maybe there's something the techs missed."
I nodded, standing. "Yeah, let's—" My words caught as my eyes flicked to the balcony across the street. A figure stood there, white dress billowing, long black hair cascading over her face. My heart stopped. Emily. She was unmistakable, even without seeing her face.
"Emily!" I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. Ryan spun, frowning. "What're you yapping about?"
I pointed, my hand shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "She's there, Ryan! On that balcony!" Grief and hope collided, tearing me apart. I'd spent weeks drowning in fear and clues, but Emily's absence was the real wound. Seeing her now, after believing she was gone forever, cracked something inside me.
I stumbled toward the balcony door, desperate to reach her. "Jake, what the hell?" Ryan called, but I was already moving. The wind picked up, sharp and cold, like it was trying to push me back. Emily raised a hand, waving, her smile as warm as our first date. I could almost hear her laugh, soft and teasing.
My feet felt light, like I was floating on a cloud toward her. The wind roared, wrapping around me, but I didn't care. I needed to hold her, to tell her I'd never stopped missing her. Her smile shifted, though—gentle to jagged, her eyes turning cold and hollow, brimming with hate. Why? What had I done?
The wind howled, a full-on tornado vibe, slamming into my chest. I reached for her, but she was fading, her form thinning like mist. "Emily, no! Don't go!" I screamed, my voice raw. Her face, now a twisted snarl, dissolved into nothing.
"Jake! Jake, get back!" A voice cut through the gale—not Emily's, but Ryan's. Strong arms locked around my waist, yanking me backward. I blinked, reality crashing in. I was on my balcony, one leg over the railing, eleven stories above the pavement. One more step, and I'd have been a pancake.
"Holy crap," I wheezed, my legs jelly as Ryan hauled me inside. "What… what happened?"
Ryan's face was red, his breath ragged from wrestling me off the ledge. "You tell me, man! You went full zombie, screaming for Emily, climbing the damn railing like you were Spider-Man with a death wish! I nearly had a heart attack!"
I collapsed onto the couch, chugging water to calm my shaking hands. "I saw her, Ryan. Across the street. She was waving, then… her face turned all Evil Dead. I wasn't trying to jump—I was trying to reach her."
Ryan glared, half-concerned, half-pissed. "There was nobody there, Jake. You're losing it. That balcony's been empty since the neighbors moved out last month."
My stomach sank. Another ghost trick, like Lila seeing Mike. The game was toying with us, dangling our loved ones like bait. "This is just like Lila," I said, my voice hollow. "She saw Mike, wanted to jump. I saw Emily, same deal. What's doing this, Ryan? Their ghosts? The game? Why us?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're fried, man. Too many late nights, too much crazy. Let's skip the café for now. Get some sleep."
"No way," I said, standing despite my wobbly legs. "We're close to something. If I stop now, I'll lose my nerve. Let's hit the net café. Max's trail is our best shot."
Ryan grumbled but grabbed his keys. "Fine, but if you start chasing ghosts again, I'm cuffing you to the car."
The net café was a grimy hole-in-the-wall near Westside Park, its neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. The air inside smelled of stale energy drinks and regret, with rows of ancient PCs humming under dim lights. The manager, a guy with a mullet that screamed "I peaked in 2005," shrugged when we asked about Max. "Yeah, he was here. Used PC 7 for three hours, then bolted. Cops already checked it."
Ryan flashed his badge. "Mind if we take another look?"
The manager waved us to the PC, muttering about overtime. I sat, the chair creaking like it was judging me. The desktop was a mess—pirated games, sketchy downloads—but no trace of the death game. "Techs said it was only on this machine," Ryan said, leaning over. "Gone now. Wiped clean."
I frowned, my mind flashing to Emily's diary. Her notes about "Hell's wrath" matched the game's vibe, but Ryan's theory about a setup nagged at me. "If someone planted the diary, maybe they planted the game here too. Max wasn't random—he was chosen. But why?"
Ryan's phone buzzed, and he stepped away to take the call. Alone, I stared at the blank screen, the café's hum fading. A chill crept up my neck, and the monitor flickered, displaying a single line: "Miss Her, Jake? Play Again."
My heart stopped. The game was back, and it knew exactly how to twist the knife.