A Name in Red
The ledger sat on the table like a silent threat, its black cover absorbing the dim light from the overhead lamp. Ethan Cross—or Daniel Reed, as the world now knew him—hadn't touched it since last night. It hadn't moved. Hadn't changed. And yet, its presence filled the room, heavy as the past he had buried.
He leaned forward, fingers drumming against the surface of his desk. Maybe this was just an elaborate prank. Someone from his old life trying to lure him out. Or worse—someone who had pieced together the impossible truth: Ethan Cross wasn't dead.
No. That was paranoia talking.
He let out a slow breath, opened his laptop, and typed the first name from the ledger into a search engine: Peter Calloway.
The results loaded instantly. A few generic LinkedIn profiles. A city councilman from Chicago. And then—
Breaking News: Local Author Peter Calloway Found Dead in His Apartment.
Ethan's pulse skipped. He clicked the article. The timestamp read 10:37 PM. He glanced at the ledger.
Peter Calloway – 10:37 PM.
He pushed back from the desk, breath coming sharp. It had to be a coincidence. A sick one, but still—a coincidence.
The rational part of his mind fought against the tension tightening in his gut. People died every day. The odds of someone on that list dying at the exact time written down? Astronomical, but not impossible.
He exhaled, forcing himself to stay grounded. He needed more proof.
His eyes moved to the next name: Theresa Whitmore – 1:12 AM.
Another random person. Maybe she wouldn't be real. Maybe this was all an elaborate fabrication.
He hesitated before typing, fingers stiff against the keys.
Theresa Whitmore.
Several hits appeared. A local journalist. A Twitter account. A professional bio listing her as an investigative reporter for a small digital newspaper. She was real.
Ethan checked the clock. 12:54 AM.
He clenched his jaw. He wasn't going to sit here and watch the clock run out. If this was a sick joke, he needed to find out who was behind it. If it wasn't…
He didn't let himself finish that thought.
Instead, he grabbed his keys, pocketed the ledger, and left the apartment.
1:05 AM, The city was restless even at this hour. Car horns in the distance. The occasional laughter of drunk pedestrians spilling out of bars. But Ethan had spent years moving unnoticed, and tonight was no different.
Theresa Whitmore's last known location was easy to find. A social media post three hours ago tagged her at a small café downtown. That was his starting point.
He parked across the street, scanning the dimly lit sidewalk. The café had long since closed, its chairs stacked upside down inside. A streetlamp flickered above the entrance.
No sign of her.
A quick search pulled up her office address—just a few blocks away. He moved quickly, sticking to the shadows.
When he reached the building, the glass doors were locked, the lobby empty. But Theresa's name was listed in the directory, Fourth Floor – Whitmore Investigations.
He checked his watch. 1:10 AM.
Two minutes.
He cursed under his breath, scanning the area. A side alley ran behind the building, leading to a fire escape. He took it two steps at a time, reaching the fourth floor just as a light flickered inside one of the offices.
Then—a muffled scream.
Ethan's instincts took over.
He moved fast, testing the window. Unlocked. He pushed it open and slipped inside, silent as a shadow.
A figure loomed over a woman near a desk, their face hidden by a hood. Theresa.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He grabbed the intruder from behind, twisting their arm in a brutal angle. The man yelped, but Ethan was already moving, slamming him into the desk. Papers scattered. A laptop crashed to the floor.
Theresa stumbled back, eyes wide, chest heaving.
The attacker struggled, but Ethan pinned him down with ease.
"Who sent you?" Ethan's voice was low, controlled.
No answer. Just labored breathing.
Theresa grabbed something from her desk—a heavy book—and swung. It connected with the attacker's skull with a dull thud. He slumped, unconscious.
She gasped, backing away. "Who the hell are you?"
Ethan ignored the question. He pulled the ledger from his pocket and flipped it open.
Theresa Whitmore – 1:12 AM.
He looked at the clock on the wall. 1:13 AM.
She was supposed to be dead.
But she wasn't.
Which meant the ledger…
Could be changed.
He exhaled, pocketing the book. Then he turned to Theresa, who was still gripping the heavy tome like a weapon.
"You're welcome," he said, stepping back.
She swallowed hard. "What—what just happened?"
Ethan glanced at the unconscious man, then back at her.
"I think you just survived a murder that was already written."
Outside, Ethan walked away with his mind racing. He had saved her. The ledger had been wrong.
Or had he just rewritten it?
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You weren't supposed to interfere.
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks.
The message was clear. Someone knew what he had done.
Someone was watching.
And for the first time in five years, Ethan felt the past creeping up behind him—ready to drag him back in.