Page 146 of Without a Trace
The headlights cut through rain.
And then—
Metal shrieked.
Glass burst.
The scream wasn't mine.
Trace
The sky outside her villa bled amber into violet, heat from the day still clinging to the air, thick and humming. I stepped inside without knocking.
I told myself it was just to wake her. That we had shit to do, that dinner was waiting.
But then I saw her.
Sprawled across the bed, one leg tangled in the sheet, the other stretched long and bare beneath the weight of nothing. Her hair had unraveled across the pillow—golden waves spilling like some fever dream I’d never quite shaken. Skin warm with sleep, cheek pressed to her arm, lashes dark against flushed skin.
She looked soft.
Not the kind of soft you touched. The kind that haunted. The kind you remembered when your hands were empty and your mouth still tasted like her name.
She never locked her door. Reckless. Always had been. Always acted like she wasn’t worth stealing.
I moved to the edge of the bed, crouched low, not touching her yet. Just watching.
Her tank had twisted in her sleep, clinging to the curve of her waist, slipping off one shoulder. The silver band at her wrist caught a flash of light as she shifted, muttering something too quiet to catch.
I’d kill anyone who saw her like this.
“Scar,” I said quietly.
She stirred.
“Scar. Wake up.”
She blinked once. Then again. Green eyes cut to mine, glassy with sleep, then sharpened.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
“You didn’t lock your door.”
“Try again.”
“You’re late for dinner.”
She pushed herself up, hair falling over one eye, groaning. “What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before Rhett starts eating the candles.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You always this charming after breaking into bedrooms?”
“Only yours.”
That earned a short breath from her. Not a laugh. Not quite.
I stood, gave her space.
