Page 99 of Hidden Echoes

She studies me, her expression daring me to do something about the anger humming under my skin.

This woman.

She is the reason Zane hates coming home.

The reason he spent so many years thinking he was disposable, unwanted. The reason he looks at me like I’m something he’s waiting to wake up from.

And now she’s standing here, breathing the same air, polluting it.

The anger rolls through me, hot and slow, creeping into my fingertips.

I think about all the times Zane’s told me pieces of his past, all the times I wanted to wrap my hands around the throat of the woman who left those invisible bruises on him.

I never thought I’d actually get the chance.

She rolls her eyes, flicking her hand impatiently. “Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“He’s not here.”

“I know he is back in Texas.”

“But he is not here.”

She huffs, muttering something under her breath, then turns on her heel and heads down the porch steps.

Her fingers tremble as she pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with the kind of ease that only comes from routine.

I watch her for a moment, my heart still pounding, but now there’s something else curling inside me.

I know what it’s like to be treated like a burden.

I know what it’s like to have someone who’s supposed to love you look at you like you’re disposable.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this woman should never have spoken about Zane like that.

Without thinking twice, I step outside and follow her.

The bar is a dump.Sticky floors, flickering neon lights, and the stale stench of sweat mixed with cheap whiskey. It reminds me of places I’ve been before—places where people like me aren’t seen, just used. The kind of place where people disappear, and no one asks questions.

Zane’s mother moves through the crowd like a parasite, slinking from one man to the next, flashing a yellowed smile, whispering poison into eager ears.

I watch as her fingers brush against arms, pockets, lingering just long enough to seal the deal. A transaction, a promise of something that will make their reality easier to swallow.

She doesn’t notice me at first.

I lean against the bar, taking my time. Watching. It doesn’t take long before she makes her way over, looking for another desperate soul to sink her claws into.

But I’m not desperate.

And I’m not here for what she’s selling.

Before she realizes what’s happening, I press the cold edge of my knife against her side. Not enough to break the skin, just enough to make her shut up and listen.

“Time to go.”

She stiffens, her eyes darting around the room, but no one is paying attention. No one ever does.

I steer her toward the back hallway, a dimly lit corridor that leads to a door with a rusted lock. She struggles a little, mumbling curses under her breath, but she knows better than to make a scene.

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