Ghost Factor: Fire on the Water, Book I

Chapter 1 - A Good Deed Gone Wrong

POV: Katrina Wilson aka Carrington Eto

The sky looked like a cheap bruise—purple bleeding into yellow where the sun had gone down crooked.
The kind of light that made everything ugly honest: cracked asphalt, flickering pump signs, and the reflection staring back at me from the gas station window—half shadow, half smirk.

That's when I saw it.
A brown leather wallet lying near pump four, thick enough to choke a horse.

The guy who dropped it was halfway to his car already—white dress shirt rolled to the elbows, shoes too clean for this part of town. BMW keys jingled like arrogance. Definitely not a local.

"Sir!" I called, jogging after him. The wallet was heavy in my palm. Old reflex whispered easy mark, but curiosity won out. "Hey! You dropped your—"

He turned.

And God help me, he was pretty.
Too pretty. The kind of man who never had to check if he still had his wallet because someone else always did it for him.

"Oh," he said, startled, smile flickering. "Thanks."

It was a bright, practiced smile—perfect teeth, perfect composure—but something about it scraped wrong. Too smooth. Like he smiled for photographs, not people.

I tossed the wallet underhand toward him. "Here, you dropped your sh*t."

He didn't even try to catch it. It hit the pavement with a dull slap.
His smile fell. "You've got some nerve, lady."

My stomach snapped tight. "Excuse me?"

"You could have handed it to me instead of throwing it," he said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

I stared at him. "Are you kidding me? I just saved you from losing—whatever this is—"
I bent, scooped it up, flipped it open. The thing was bursting with hundreds. "—a lot of cash."
I looked up. "You're welcome."

"Your language is disgusting," he muttered when I swore. "Yeah, thanks, young lady. You're a real charmer."

Young. He said it like a disease.

Nineteen wasn't that young. But the way he said it, like I was some street rat, lit a fuse.

"Right," I said flatly. "Real grateful guy, aren't you?"

He started to turn away.
That was the mistake.

I plucked the cash from the wallet in one smooth motion, rolled the bills between my fingers. His eyes went wide. I smirked. "Consider it a finder's fee."

He blinked. "You can't—"

But I already had.
The bills disappeared into my back pocket. The empty wallet I tossed again, this time aimed for his perfect face. He caught it, reflexive.

"Lesson for the day," I said. "Don't insult someone doing you a favor. You never know what they'll decide to keep."

Then I turned and walked away, boots striking rhythm against cracked concrete.
The city was waking up ahead—horns, sirens, the smell of hot oil and cheap street food.
Behind me, he was still shouting something—maybe my name, maybe a curse—but I didn't look back. Looking back was for amateurs.

⸻

He follows. I hear it in the drag of his soles on broken tar, that little hitch of disbelief when reality refuses to be orderly. I tuck the bills into my back pocket and pick up the pace. I know how to move so people think I belong wherever I land—eyes forward, shoulders a hair loose, elbows free.

The street is a chorus of ordinary ugly: bus brakes screaming, a siren somewhere, a fryer's grease, exhaust breath. Neon signs blink themselves awake like they hate it. The buildings lean in; the city loves to eavesdrop.