Chapter 262: Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty-Nine - The Call That Breaks Him

Zane senses it before he understands it.

The sound reaches him through the closed car windows first, distorted by concrete and distance. Sirens. Not one. Several. Layered and overlapping, converging from different directions with no rhythm or order. The noise vibrates through the parking structure, echoing off pillars and low ceilings, crawling under his skin.

He pulls the phone from his ear without thinking, as if the sound itself has interrupted the call.

"Zane?" the voice on the other end says, thin and uncertain.

Then the line cuts out.

He stares at the screen, waiting for the signal bars to return, for the call to reconnect, for something ordinary to explain the interruption. His thumb hovers uselessly over the glass.

Nothing happens.

His chest tightens.

She has been gone too long.

The thought slips in quietly, almost politely, and then refuses to leave.

"Willow," he says aloud, already dialing.

The call rings once. Twice.

Voicemail.

His jaw tightens as he ends the call and immediately dials again. His breathing grows shallow with each unanswered ring. His mind begins counting time in fragments. Minutes since she walked away. Seconds since she last looked back at him. The sound of her voice earlier that morning, calm and distracted.

I’ll be quick.

No answer.

He yanks the car door open harder than he intends to and steps out into noise and motion.

People are running.

Not walking fast. Not hurrying with purpose. Running without direction, faces blank with fear, bodies colliding as they spill out of the mall entrance. Someone stumbles near the curb and drops to their knees, rocking, hands over their head. Another person screams into a phone, words dissolving into incoherent sound.

A man bursts through the sliding doors with blood on his sleeve that does not appear to be his own. He looks down at it as if surprised, then wipes it against his jeans in a frantic, useless motion. A woman clutches a child to her chest so tightly the child begins to cry from the pressure. Car alarms start blaring as doors are flung open and slammed shut. Tires screech as someone reverses too quickly and nearly collides with a concrete column.

The automatic doors keep opening.

Keep releasing people.

Each face that emerges seems more fractured than the last. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Shock written in the slack lines of their features. Some are crying. Some are silent. One young man stands just beyond the entrance, staring back inside as if he has forgotten how to move.

The smell reaches him next.

Not strong yet. Not clear.

But wrong.

A metallic tang threaded through the air, riding beneath the scent of exhaust and overheated brakes. His pulse begins pounding so hard he feels it behind his eyes. He dials her again without looking at the screen, lifting the phone to his ear as he starts moving toward the entrance.

It rings.

And rings.

He presses it tighter against his skin as if force might bridge whatever is breaking inside that building.

"Come on," he mutters, though he does not know whether he is speaking to her, to the phone, or to whatever force has just tilted the world off its axis.

The mall entrance is chaos.

Security gates hang halfway down, frozen mid-descent. Guards shout commands that no one seems able to process. Sirens scream past the entrance now, police cars and ambulances skidding to stops, lights flashing violently against glass and concrete.

"There’s been a shooting," someone says nearby, voice shaking. "They’re locking it down."

The word shooting lands in Zane’s chest like a blow.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with Willow inside.

He moves forward, fast, cutting through people who barely register his presence. A guard steps into his path, hand raised, eyes wide and overwhelmed.

"Sir, you need to stop."

"There’s someone in there," Zane says, his voice low and strained, already fraying at the edges. "My fiancée is in there."

The guard hesitates, his radio crackling loudly at his shoulder.

Static bursts through the speaker, followed by overlapping voices trying to talk at once. Fragments of information break through the interference. Units arriving. Shooter status uncertain. Injured reported near the west corridor. The guard glances back toward the entrance, then at Zane again, caught between protocol and the raw urgency in front of him. Behind them, another wave of people stumbles out, some crying openly, others pale and silent, their movements mechanical, as if their bodies are operating without permission from their minds.

"Multiple victims," a voice barks through the talkie. "Casualties confirmed. EMS on scene."

The word casualties does something ugly to Zane’s stomach.

"Sir, you cannot go inside."

Zane steps around him anyway.

Hands grab his arm. He shakes them off with more force than he realizes he has, adrenaline drowning out restraint, fear driving him forward with singular focus.

He runs.

Inside the mall, the familiar space has become unrecognizable. Polished floors are smeared with debris, dropped bags, shattered glass. Storefronts sit half-shuttered, alarms chirping uselessly in the background. People crouch against walls. Others lie on the floor being tended to by EMTs, blood-streaked hands pressing against wounds.

Zane moves from one to the next, weaving through paramedics and bystanders, his eyes scanning every stretcher with desperate precision. Each injured body he passes tightens the knot in his chest, because every face that is not hers is both relief and fresh dread in the same breath. A woman with blood matted in her blonde hair is lifted past him. Not Willow. A teenage girl clutches her arm while an EMT secures a bandage. Not Willow. A man lies pale and groaning as pressure is applied to his leg. Not Willow. The terror sharpens with each step, growing heavier, more suffocating, until the question pounds through him with unbearable force. Oh my God, where is Willow? He searches frantically through faces, hair colors, torn coats, familiar shoes, trying to anchor himself to something recognizable, something that will either break him or save him. But there is nothing.

"Willow," he calls, louder now, panic bleeding through his voice. "Willow."

He rounds a corner and sees the jewelry store.

Police tape flutters uselessly near the entrance. EMTs rush in and out, carrying equipment, pushing gurneys. Blood stains the tile near the doorway.

His heart stutters.

He pushes forward, ignoring the officer who tries to block him, his eyes scanning desperately until they find her.

Recognition strikes like impact.