Chapter 2 - The Ghost from the North Side
The phone rang twice.
To anyone else, it would have sounded like an eternity. To Nebula, locked in the freezing purgatory of the Oakridge patio, those two rings felt like the ticking of a bomb.
Click.
There was no greeting. No "hello." Just the deep, flat silence of a line being monitored by someone who did not speak unless it was strictly necessary.
“I need help,” Nebula whispered. Her voice broke, small and pathetic against the rushing wind.
On the other end, there was a pause. A heavy, rhythmic sound—the dull thrum of a car engine idling, or perhaps the steady beat of a fireplace. Then, a low, gravelly voice spoke. It was a voice that belonged to a world of dark wood, heavy rain, and unrecorded violence.
“You’ve been dead for four years, Nebula.”
Tears hot and stinging mixed with the freezing rain on her cheeks. “Vance.”
“Say my name again,” the voice commanded. Not unkindly, but with an absolute, terrifying authority.
“Vance,” she choked out. “Vance... please.”
“Where are you?”
“Oakridge Country Club. The north patio.”
“Who’s with you?”
“No one. My... my husband is inside. My sister’s wedding.”
A dry, humourless chuckle came through the speaker. “You married an architect from the suburbs. I told you that was going to end in drywall and wine coolers.”
“Vance, he’s going to kill me. If I go back inside, if I get in that car—he’s going to kill me tonight.”
The background noise on his end shifted—the sound of a leather jacket sliding against a seat, a heavy car door opening, and the wet crunch of gravel under heavy tires.
“Can you walk?” Vance asked.
“My face... my jaw is broken, I think. But I can walk.”
“Get to the service gate on Elm Street. Behind the kitchens. Don't use the front entrance. Don't let anyone see you.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
The line went dead.
Nebula lowered the phone. The screen flickered and died, battery flat from the cold.
Ten minutes.
She scrambled to her feet, her knees screaming in protest. The silk of her dress was torn at the hem, soaked through with muddy water and stained with her own blood. She spat out a mouthful of copper and wiped her face with the back of her shivering hand.
She couldn't go back through the ballroom. If Richard looked out the window and saw her heading toward the parking lot, he would intercept her before she reached her car.
She had to cross the gravel garden path, skirting the edge of the golf course, and find the service lane behind the massive commercial kitchens.
The wind whipped across the manicured lawns, biting through the thin silk of her gown like a razor. Every step sent a jolt of agony through her jaw, vibrating up into her skull. Her designer heels sank into the wet turf, slowing her down, forcing her to kick them off entirely. She ran barefoot over the freezing grass, gasping for air, her breath pluming white in the autumn air.
As she rounded the corner of the brick equipment shed, the bright halogen lights of the country club service area came into view.
Garbage bins lined the brick wall. A chef in a white apron stood by the back door smoking a cigarette, blowing rings into the dark.
Nebula ducked behind a delivery van, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She waited, clutching her bruised jaw, counting the seconds in her head.
One, two, three, four...
A low, guttural rumble cut through the hiss of the rain.
From the end of the unpaved service lane, cutting its headlights entirely, a matte-black sedan rolled forward. It didn't belong in Oakridge. It looked like an armored vault on wheels—tinted windows so dark they absorbed the surrounding light, heavy steel plating, and tires that swallowed the gravel soundlessly.
The passenger-side door swung open from the inside.
Inside the cabin, lit only by the faint amber glow of the dashboard instruments, sat a man in a dark charcoal overcoat, his silver-shot hair combed straight back, a jagged white scar cutting across his left cheekbone.
Vance.
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He didn't look at her face. He didn't ask how she was. He simply reached across the console and pointed to the leather seat.
“Get in, Nebula,” he said. “Before your husband finishes his champagne.”
