Page 55 of Mason

Because all I can hear is his voice.

“What are you doing here, Ironside?”

“I’m here to talk about David Eddy.”

“Because David Eddy is missing, and we’ve traced his phone to this location.”

Fuck.

My chest tightens, the pressure sharp, pressing down like a vice.

I try to breathe through it, try to focus, but it’s like my lungs forget how to work.

The panic sets in fast, too fast—a clawing, constricting thing wrapping around my ribs.

I gasp, but it’s not enough.

I clutch at my seatbelt, fingers digging into the fabric as my whole body locks up.

“Shelby.”

Mason’s voice is distant, muffled, like he’s calling to me through a thick fog.

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He says something else, his voice low, steady, but I don’t catch the words.

I can’t catch anything except the terrifying, inescapable fact that Saxon North was standing on my doorstep, talking about David like he was a loose thread waiting to be pulled.

Like he knew.

Like he was just waiting for me to slip up.

I suck in a sharp breath, but it comes too fast, too shallow, and suddenly I’m dizzy, shaking, spiraling.

Mason curses under his breath. I feel the weight of his hand closing over mine, prying my fingers from where they’ve twisted into the seatbelt.

“Look at me,” he says, and this time, the words break through the haze just enough to make me flick my gaze toward him.

His eyes are locked on mine, sharp, steady. They anchor me.

“You're okay,” he tells me, voice firm. “Breathe.”

I shake my head again, my breath still ragged, still coming too fast.

His grip on my hand tightens.

“Shelby.”

I swallow hard, fighting against the rising wave of panic, trying to match my breathing to his.

Inhale. Exhale.

In. Out.

The car keeps moving, the city slipping past in a blur. I don’t know where we’re going.

I don’t ask.

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