Page 3 of Without a Trace
He didn’t stop me as I walked away.
I turned back, just as I hit the edge of the dock. He was still leaning there, one shoulder pressed against the wood. Eyes on me like I’d done something wrong just by showing up. Or maybe right.
“Scar—”Alden’s voice cut through the quiet from the bonfire pit. He was laughing with someone. Probably Sloane. Maybe Rhett.
But in that second, I didn’t care.
Something had shifted. I could feel it under my skin. Like the air around me was new. Charged.
And even though Trace didn’t say another word,
I already knew it wouldn’t be the last time.
Scarlett
Present Day
The morning was too quiet. That kind of hush that feels like it’s waiting for something to break.
I wrapped the blanket tighter around my legs on the porch swing, barefoot, a chipped mug of coffee burning against my palms. The lake was still. Fog curled at the edges like it clung to the night, making everything feel a little haunted.
Hemingway let out a grunty sigh from his nest of blankets beside me, snoring like a middle-aged man in a recliner. He was my emotional support pug, and he knew it—curled into a little beige loaf with his tongue sticking out just slightly, one ear flopped backward, breathing like he’d just run a marathon in his dreams.
Reaching down, I scratched his warm, round belly. He snorted, one stubby leg kicking as if he were chasing something in a dream. I rested my cheek briefly against his side, letting the warmth ground me. “You’re the only man I trust anymore, you know that?”
He didn’t even lift his head. Just grumbled and shifted closer.
The house creaked behind me—old wood settling, someone shifting upstairs.
“Scar?” a voice called behind me—gravelly, half-asleep. Alden.
A minute later, the screen door squeaked open, and he stepped out, barefoot, hoodie over yesterday’s clothes, hair sticking up, looking exhausted.
“You’re up early.” He smiled.
“So are you.”
He squinted into the fog. “I thought I heard you crying.”
I looked at him, dry-eyed. “Wasn’t.”
He nodded, as if doubting my words. That’s the thing about Alden. He never asked the hard questions until it was too late.
Arms crossed, he leaned against the railing and sighed. “You always do this on your birthday.” Alden said, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, the regret already written across his face. He smiled—crooked, half-hearted. That smile people give when they’re trying not to make things worse.
“Do what?”
“This,” he said, motioning to all of me. “The whole moody-lake house-sad girl vibe.”
I smiled without meaning to. “Fuck off.”
“There she is.” He smirked. “You talk to him?” he shifted slightly, thumb grazing the inside of his forearm like the question scraped something raw.
“No.” I sighed. “Not in a while.”
Alden’s jaw flexed. Like maybe that answer wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was too much.
He shifted slightly, rubbing at the inside of his forearm, looking away.
