Page 5 of Without a Trace
And just like that, the weekend began.
Scarlett
Ifroze, halfway through pouring more coffee, my hand shaking just enough to spill a little on the counter. My stomach dropped before the engine even cut off.
Not just any tires—his. The low growl of the engine, the slightly uneven rhythm of his oversized wheels kicking up dust in the drive. All the boys drove trucks, but his sounded different. It had lived through things. Held secrets in silence.
I backed away from the window slowly, my fingers slipping from the coffee pot, heartbeat thudding in my throat, desperate to escape. As if not seeing him could make it less real.
“You okay?” Sloane asked on her third coffee, legs crossed in full queen mode, scrolling through her phone like she was waiting for the world to burn.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Rhett met my eyes across the kitchen, calm to the surface but hiding something deeper. He knew this wasn’t fine. He knew I hadn’t seen Trace Maddox since I gave up the last piece of myself I was still clinging to.
“Breathe,” Lena whispered beside me, slipping a mimosa into my hand.
The door opened before I could get out of the room.
Boots on hardwood. Heavy, slow. He wasn’t in a rush—he moved with the certainty of someone that expected to be felt before he was seen. My hand curled tighter around the glass, shoulders bracing for an impact that hadn’t landed yet.
I didn’t look up right away. I couldn’t.
“Well, well,” Kane’s voice cut through. “Look who finally showed up.”
Silence. A pin could drop.
I turned.
He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe he just carried it differently now. Dark curls a little longer than they used to be. Tattoos creeping further up his neck, inked stories I hadn’t been allowed to read.
His expression tensed, eyes locked on me—and for a split second, I swore his hand drifted to his forearm.
Trace fucking Maddox.
He was silent. His eyes traced my face in a slow unraveling, and his fingers tapped once against his thigh—barely there, a restless edge his body couldn’t suppress even as his mouth stayed still.
And my whole chest ached. Like I’d swallowed a memory wrong, and it was logged behind my ribs.
My body remembered him before my mind did—muscle memory, trauma response, call it whatever the hell you want. I felt everything at once. The weight of his stare, the history we never talked about, the night I never forgot.
My fingers drifted to the pocket of my hoodie. The lighter warm in my hand. I’d kept it all these years. I didn’t know why. I just had.
“Scarlett,” he finally said.
Just my name. Nothing more.
And still, it broke me.
I swallowed. “Hey.”
He stared for a second too long. Then, softer—softer than I remembered—
“Still carrying fire, Sunshine?”
Kane, bless him, cleared his throat. “So. Who wants pancakes?”
No one answered.
