Page 214 of Without a Trace
Kane raised his glass. “To the heir, then.”
I didn’t toast. Just looked at the flames and whispered, “To the end of pretending.”
And let the fire answer for me.
Scarlett
The morning air smelled like smoke and inevitability.
We hadn’t slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of silence, the bottle emptied, the fire burned down, and every one of us unraveling in our own quiet ways.
By the time light slipped through the curtains, I was already up—barefoot on cold wood floors, hoodie still on, voice still raw.
Rhett was in the kitchen, pouring coffee like it was penance. Kane stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze locked on the tree line. Trace leaned against the stair rail, his shirt wrinkled, eyes darker than sleep. Alden sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the dead fire.
And when I walked in, they looked up.
Not as if I was broken.
Not like I needed saving.
But like they were waiting for my next move.
Zeke stepped into the room from the hallway, already dressed, already calculating. “There’s movement on the south perimeter. Could be nothing, but we’re watching it.”
I gave a slow nod, heading to the counter, grabbing my phone.
One unread text.
Sloane: Call m
e. I feel like something’s wrong.
My chest tightened.
She always knew.
Scarlett: Lena’s a fucking traitor. I’ll explain later. I need you.
I stared at the screen another moment. Then spoke without looking up.
“I need my best friend.”
Kane snorted softly. “She talking about me or the dog?”
“She’s talking about Sloane,” Trace said, voice low.
Rhett raised his cup. “Hemingway’s coming too, right?”
I almost smiled. “He wouldn’t miss it.”
Alden didn’t have to say it. The look he gave me said everything—we’re not doing this without them.
Zeke gave a clipped nod. “We’ll get them here. Fast.”
The room felt sharper now.
Not buzzing. Not loud.
