Page 33 of Mason

“You need to trust me, Shelby. Let’s go.”

Trust.

A funny word, considering the circumstances.

I glance back at the men who are already setting up, working quickly, methodically. I hear the sound of a tarp unfurling, the quiet click of a blade being flicked open.

I can’t be here for this.

I can’t watch themerasewhat I did.

I force my feet to move. One step. Then another. Mason follows close behind as we step out onto the porch, the cold night air hitting my skin like a slap.

I can still smell blood.

I wrap my arms around myself again, but it does nothing to shake the hollow, sinking feeling in my chest.

A dead man is in my living room.

And by the time I come back…

He’ll be gone.

Like he was never even here.

Likenone of thisever happened.

We drivethrough the quiet streets surrounding my home, then merge onto the freeway. The hum of the tires against the asphalt is the only sound between us.

I stare out the window, my mind numb, my body still running on the fading edge of adrenaline. I should be asking more questions, should be trying to make sense of the fact that a team is currently scrubbing every trace of David’s death from my house—but I can’t bring myself to form the words.

We drive for what seems like forever, but it’s only about forty minutes before Mason pulls up to a large wrought iron gate. With the click of a button on his dashboard, the gate slides back, opening into darkness.

I turn to face him, taking in his profile as he steers the car up a winding driveway, the soft glow of the headlights illuminating a house ahead. It’s not the looming mansion I was expecting. Instead, it’s a modest ranch-style home—clean lines, warm lighting spilling from the windows.

It’s unexpected.

He’s unexpected.

I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where are we?”

Mason cuts the engine, his fingers flexing around the wheel before he glances at me. “My place.”

My stomach tightens. I shouldn’t be here.

He must see it on my face because he exhales, shaking his head. “It’s just for a few hours, Shelby. You need to clean up. Get your head straight. Then I’ll take you home.”

Home.

The word scrapes through me, jagged and meaningless. The place I lived is just an empty shell now, wiped clean, stripped of the proof that I ever fought for my own life inside those walls.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Mason gets out first, rounding the car to open my door. I step out, wrapping my arms around myself as the cool night air brushes against my skin. He leads me toward the side of the house, past the main entrance, until a smaller structure comes into view.

A pool house.

It’s small, but beautiful. The light from inside spills through the large windows, highlighting sleek wood floors and carefully curated furniture that looks more like a high-end vacation rental than a guest space.

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