PROLOGUE Ingrid Halstead was alone.
She knelt in the dirt, retying her laces for the third time since the start of the team run. It felt like only a few seconds, but when she lifted her head, the sounds of a dozen other pairs of sneakers pounding the dirt path were long gone. She’d fallen to the back of the pack, breaking the single rule the coach set: no one runs alone.
The rule came from superstition. Blackridge fed off it. But even if she didn’t buy into the ghost stories, she understood that the woods were a dangerous place. One wrong turn, and you’d wind yourself farther and farther into an unforgiving landscape.
She rose, ignoring the other untied sneaker, and scanned the trees. Cross‑ country practice took place before sunrise in August, before the sweltering summer sun pressed against the sky. She hated morning practice, but she hated the heat more.
The trees rustled. She half expected a rabbit to dart out from the brush, leaping past her feet and back into the safety of the dark woods.
Instead, a shadow passed between two trees.
Ingrid had heard the stories. But she’d never believed them. The Shadow Man was a cautionary tale to keep kids from wander‑ ing into the woods and getting lost.
She wasn’t afraid. It was silly to be afraid. But still, her heart raced and her fingers trembled as she bent and struggled to tie off her laces.
The knot slipped through her fingers, unraveling. She cursed under her breath and lifted her head, her gaze flicking to the place she’d seen the shadow. The trees were trees. The forest a forest.
She reached for the charm bracelet clipped around her wrist, a gift from her parents when she was ten, with a new charm added each birthday. She unclasped the bracelet. Let it fall to the ground. Nudged dirt over top of it with the toe of her shoe.
Maybe she was paranoid. Maybe all she’d accomplish was dirtying a nice bracelet.
But maybe if she left a piece of herself behind, someone would find her.
The snapping of a twig. A footstep crunching leaves. Both sounds too close.
Ingrid tied off her shoe and pushed to her feet. The hairs spiked on the back of her neck.
A presence at her back. An exhale, not her own. And then a sharp prick to her right arm. The cool flush of liquid spilling into her veins.
In an instant, the world turned to mush. Darkness spread at the edges of her vision. Her limbs buckled.
Everything went dark. And Ingrid knew, knew it down to her very cells, that she wouldn’t see the light again.
Copyright © 2026 by Brooke Archer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
