Page 215 of Without a Trace
Just awake.
Like the house itself had been holding its breath—and finally exhaled.
I looked at each of them again, and this time, I didn’t see doubt.
Only readiness.
Only the beginning.
Scarlett
Icouldn’t do this without her.
I knew it the second I sent the text.
We loaded into the trucks and headed out before the sun climbed all the way above the trees.
The safe-house fell behind us in the mirror, but the weight didn’t.
I sat in the front passenger seat, staring out the window, chewing the inside of my cheek.
Sloane was waiting in an empty church parking lot on the edge of town—tight hoodie, sunglasses, Hemingway in a harness that looked like it had seen war.
The moment I got out, the pug bolted across the pavement, barreling into my legs with a snort and a sound that might’ve been a bark. Tongue out and tail wagging like I hadn’t abandoned him for something ancient and apocalyptic.
I dropped to my knees.
“Hemingway,” I whispered, laughing as he climbed all over me.
Sloane didn’t ask questions. She just pulled me into her arms. “I’ve got you.”
Trace stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Alden watched from beside the truck. The others gave us space.
“You really meant it?” Sloane asked softly.
“Lena betrayed us.”
I sighed.
She nodded, mouth set hard. “Then let’s burn it down.”
I smiled.
Because of course she'd say that.
And when we loaded back up—me wedged between her and Hemingway, both refusing to let go—I finally felt something I hadn’t in days.
Steady.
Ready.
Home.
Scarlett
Back at the safe-house, Sloane got the full rundown.
She sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch, one hand absently stroking Hemingway’s back as he snored in her lap. Her expression had shifted somewhere between you’re fucking kidding me and do I need a weapon?
