Shifting Greer's Book 1
highlight_author
K. D. Cartiff
highlight_reads
16.0K
highlight_chapters
52
Two months ago, Greer had everything—a sharp wit, confidence to burn, and a life that fit perfectly. Now she’s hiding under a new name, in a new town, with nothing but a pair of glasses and a list of lies to keep her safe. Witness Protection was supposed to erase the night she lost her parents, but danger doesn’t fade that easily. When Kaleb starts asking the wrong questions, the world Greer built begins to crack. The past she’s desperate to bury is clawing its way back, and the shadows she ran from might be closer than ever. Can she stay hidden when her heart refuses to?
Prologue
GREER
The sound comes first. Not loud. Wrong. Fireworks. A car backfiring. Something normal that belongs to a night where nothing changes.
Then the sound comes again, closer this time, and the floor shudders beneath my feet. My hands are shaking. I notice this before I understand why.
They’re empty, but my fingers curl like they’re supposed to be holding something—like something’s missing.
My heart is too fast—a wild bird beating against a steel cage. It’s too loud in my ears, drowning out the hopes of hearing anything else. Someone says my name. Not shouting. Not calm either. Just—urgent. Like it matters how quickly I hear it.
The hallway light flickers. Once. Twice.
There’s a shoe on its side near the door. Not where shoes go. The laces are still tied. That’s strange, I think. I stare at it for too long, then my gaze moves to the wall.
There’s red on the wall. A streak, uneven, like someone brushed past it. I stare at it, trying to decide what color it really is. It’s darker than paint. Thicker.
My mouth tastes like pennies.
“Greer.” My mom’s voice this time. Softer. Closer. The way she says my name when I’ve done something wrong, but it’s fixable. When there’s still time.
My dad says my name too, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. “Greer, go—”
The rest disappears. Swallowed by another sound, sharp enough to split the air right in two. The room tilts.
The fridge hums. I notice that next. The steady, mechanical buzz like nothing is happening at all. The light above the kitchen sink flickers again, and I wonder if it’s always been that way or if it’s new.
My knees lock. My body doesn’t fall, but it wants to. There’s a pulling sensation behind my ribs, like something inside me is trying to leave first.
Someone grabs my arm. I don’t remember deciding to move, but suddenly I am. My feet hit the floor hard, too hard. One shoe. Then cold.
I look down and see skin where a shoe should be. Bare feet. That almost feels important. I tuck that thought away for later.
The front door is open. Or broken. I can’t tell which. Air rushes in, sharp and clean and wrong. I should be cold, I know this deep down, but I’m not. Instead, air hits my face, and I gasp like I’ve been underwater.
Outside, the world is too bright. A porch light across the street burns yellow and steady. A dog barks once, then goes quiet.
My mom says my name again, closer now, right near my ear. Her voice cracks on the second syllable.
I try to turn around. Someone says no. It might be my dad. It might not be. The voice sounds far away, like it’s traveling through water to reach me. I don’t see their faces. I only see hands. One shaking. One reaching. One slipping out of view.
There’s a sound that shouldn’t come from a person. A wet, broken sound that doesn’t match any word I know. The edges of everything start to blur.
My feet don’t feel like feet. My body feels like a coat I forgot I was wearing.
I focus on the porch light. Count bugs circling it. One. Two. Three. They’re coming back even when they fly away.
Someone is pulling me again. Harder this time. My arm hurts, but pain doesn’t land anywhere real. It just exists, floating. “Keep walking,” a voice says.
Not my parents’ voice. A stranger’s. Calm in a way that doesn’t, shouldn’t, fit.
I walk. I don’t know where. I don’t remember the street. Or the steps. Or the neighbor’s door opening. Only the sound of my breathing—too fast, too loud, like it doesn’t belong to me.
A blanket appears around my shoulders. My numb fingers reach up and pull at a loose thread. It’s heavy, scratchy. It smells like laundry soap I don’t recognize.
Red and blue lights flash against beige walls. My walls are green. The lights paint everything in pieces. Red wall. Blue face. Blue hands.
People ask questions. My name. My age. What did I see?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
The porch light across the street flickers. Someone kneels in front of me, their face careful and blurred at the edges. They say I’m safe. The word safe doesn’t land. It slides off me like water. I look down at my hands.
There’s something dark under my fingernails. I rub them together, harder and harder, but it doesn’t come off.
I close my eyes and see them. They hadn’t bothered to cover their faces. To them, I didn’t matter. I wasn’t supposed to live long enough to remember their faces.
But I will never forget. They are carved into me anyway.
