Page 30 of Without a Trace
The deck was a hush of crickets and a lone porch bulb. Kane and Rhett murmured in the kitchen; the fridge light flared like a heartbeat every time it opened.
Alden sat beside her, not touching, but close enough to brand the air. His thumb tapped the armrest—one, two, three—steady as a trigger pull.
I stared too long; Alden stared back through the window, unflinching. He knew. Maybe he always had.
I tore myself away, the screen door hissing shut behind me, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached.
She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong to me.
But one of us was going to shatter.
Scarlett
Ididn’t know how long I’d laid there until I heard the door creak when Trace opened it, which felt dramatic and appropriate.
Kane looked up from where he was sprawled on the floor with a handful of snacks. “Well, well, if it isn’t our tortured soul,” he announced, tossing a pretzel at Trace.
It hit his shoulder but he ignored it.
“I thought you died out there,” he added. “Like a forest ghost. Sad, but poetic.”
I stretched my limbs and sat up with a sound caught between a sigh and a laugh. My head spun a little, floaty from wine and everything I wasn’t saying. Trace stepped inside, backlit by the hallway glow. He moved silently to the corner, arms folded across his chest like armor, brown eyes darker than usual. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Watching.
“He’s fine,” I said. “Just having a mid-life crisis early. It’s trendy.”
Sloane passed me a bottle of water. “He’s twenty-four.”
“Exactly.”
Lena giggled from where she was curled up in a blanket, cheeks flushed from too much wine and not enough food, red hair tumbling over her shoulder in a loose, messy braid. She looked radiant. Unbothered.
In the kitchen, Rhett moved with quiet purpose—sleeves rolled, rinsing plates we didn’t ask him to. The clink of glass and water hitting porcelain was oddly soothing. I watched him for a minute, something in me aching with gratitude I couldn’t name.
The water was like penance as I drank it. Cool. Sharp. Grounding.
Tense and still, Trace stood against the far wall, his eyes briefly on me before he looked away. Like he was trying not to look. Like it hurt.
Alden wandered to the speaker, fiddling until low music buzzed to life—a slow rhythm, bass steady and pulsing. A song I didn’t know, but somehow still recognized.
I tucked my feet under me, my skin warm and limbs loose, and grinned at Kane.
“Did you seriously eat the cake before everyone else even got a slice?”
He looked offended. “I was testing it for poison. You’re welcome.”
I laughed, too loud, too long, tossing a pillow at his chest. It bounced off him and hit the wine bottle instead, nearly toppling it. Sloane caught it, rolled her eyes, and muttered something about drunk children.
Warm light spilled from the kitchen, candlelight dancing across the walls. It didn’t feel real—none of it did. Night and morning suspended us—between the last thing that hurt and the next one that might.
“Hot tub?” Sloane asked, eyebrow raised like she already knew the answer.
Lena perked up. “Yes. A hundred times yes. I need steam. And stars.”
Kane jumped up like he’d been waiting all night for that exact sentence. “Someone grab the speaker. Scarlett, you coming or are you going to fall back asleep and miss the magic?”
I stood, wobbly but wild. “Oh, I’m coming. You think I’m letting you all make memories without me? Absolutely not.”
Trace and Alden moved at the same time—one towards the hallway closet for towels, the other slipping out onto the patio. Their shoulders brushed in passing. Neither looked at the other.
