Page 77 of Begin Again

Whipping my head back toward the road I see the light in front of me is red and it has been red long enough there is a line of cars already crossing the intersection.

Shit.

Slamming on the breaks I instinctively throw an arm out across Selene’s chest to keep her from lurching forward. The tires screech against the pavement, the truck skidding to a stop so abruptly that her purse flies off the seat, spilling its contents all over the floorboard.

“Jesus, Theo,” she breathes, clutching the dashboard.

I drag a shaking hand down my face, my heart slamming against my ribs. “You screamed like we were about to die.”

“We almost did!”

Selene exhales shakily, shaking her head as she leans down to pick up her scattered belongings, hastily stuffing them back in her bag.

But when she sits up, she’s holding something that doesn’t belong to her.

A tumbler.

She sets it absentmindedly in the cupholder between our knees, but the second I see it, the breath in my lungs turns to stone.

I know that bottle.

I know it because I’ve seen it a thousand times before—sitting on the counter, the dining table, that exact cup holder.

It belonged to my uncle.

My grip tightens on the wheel, my pulse hammering as I stare at it. I can’t move. Can’t think. It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be anywhere.

A honk jolts me back to the present. Blinking, I inhale a ragged breath before hitting the gas. The truck lurches forward, but my mind is still stuck in place.

Selene watches me carefully, not understanding what just happened. “Theo,” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

My throat feels tight. “That’s not mine,” I say. “It’s my uncle’s.”

Her brows pull together in confusion, but when I point to the bottle, I see the wheels start to turn in her head, the moment she puts it together.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet. “Do you think… if he was poisoned, whatever he was poisoned with could still be in this bottle?”

The truck keeps moving forward, but my stomach drops like I’ve hit a dead stop.

There’s only one way to find out.

The truck rolls down the quiet streets of Shadow Grove, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier. The bottle sits between us, an unspoken threat, a remnant of the past that doesn’t belong in the present. But it does. And it’s here.

Neither of us speaks as I turn onto the road leading to Mo’s house. The tires crunch over gravel, dust swirling up behind us, but it all feels distant—like I’m not really here like I’m stuck somewhere between then and now.

When Mo’s cabin comes into view, she’s already outside.

She leans against the porch railing, cradling a ceramic mug between her hands, steam curling in the crisp evening air. The golden light from the sun catches in her waist length curls, casting a halo around her face. Mo has always had an effortless beauty—striking in a way that feels almost otherworldly. She’s practically glowing and I do not want to know what the cause of that could be.

She’s watching us before we even park, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. She sees everything. Always has. And when I shift into park and step out of the truck, she takes one look at my face and knows immediately that things aren’t right.

“Mo—” I start, but the words tangle in my throat.

Shaking my head I look down at the thing that can potentially have all the answers and her gaze follows mine.

To the bottle in my hands.

The color drains from her face.

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