Page 15 of Without a Trace
I was small. I knew that. My feet didn’t reach the floor, my hands sticky with something I couldn’t name.
A woman spoke. Not my mother. This voice was deeper. Softer. “What do you mean she’s marked?”
Silence.
Then another voice. Male. “It means she’s not yours to keep.”
I turned my head. A symbol on the wall—swirled, like smoke—shimmered. Moved.
Then everything cracked open.
The floor. The voices. My skin.
Scarlett
Something warm and wet dragged across my cheek and I groaned, swatting at the air before rolling onto my side. Big mistake. My head was pounding—deep and pulsing, like a warning bell I couldn’t shut off. My mouth was dry, stomach twisted. Everything ached but not just from the alcohol. Something heavier pressed against my chest, as if I’d done or said too much.
“Stop,” I mumbled. “Dead. Leave me.”
The tongue came back. Sloppier this time.
“Hemingway,” I groaned, cracking one eye open. “That’s illegal.”
He grunted, tail wagging like he’d just rescued me from a house fire instead of licking last night’s mascara off my face.
The bed dipped, a new voice joining the chaos.
“Oh thank god,” Sloane said. “She lives.”
“Barely,” I muttered.
“You smell like tequila and a poor decision.”
“Which one?”
Sloane laughed, yanking the blanket off me like a war crime.
Lena peeked around the doorway, holding a cup of coffee in both hands like it was sacred. “We brought caffeine. And judgment.”
“I hate both of you.”
“We know,” they said in unison.
Sloane tossed a sweatshirt at my head. “Get dressed. We’re going hiking.”
“I’m sorry,” I said slowly. “Do you want me to die?”
“Sunlight. Sweat. Redemption,” she replied. “You need all three.”
Hemingway barked once like he agreed.Traitor.
Lena sat on the edge of the bed and handed me the coffee. “You okay, though?”
I blinked at her. “What did I do last night?”
“Besides flirt with danger and maybe traumatize Trace?”
I groaned into my cup. “Fantastic.”
