Page 85 of Without a Trace

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Raw. Bone-deep.

Like I’d burned through every version of myself and there was nothing left to hold.

The voices downstairs stopped. The arguing had gone quiet. And somehow, that was worse.

Because silence wasn’t peace.

It was pressure.

I leaned back on my hands and looked up at the ceiling. The same spot I’d stared at the first night we got here. The night everything felt heavy, but survivable.

Now?

Now it felt like I was standing on the edge of something sharp.

I thought about the kiss with Rhett. About Alden’s voice in my ear. About Trace’s fists, clenched at his sides like if he didn’t hold himself still, he’d destroy everything.

How I was the match they kept striking.

What the fuck was I doing?

I thought chaos would set me free. But maybe all I’d done was build a prettier prison.

One that smelled like sweat and salt and old lake air.

I curled onto my side, closing my eyes.

And for just a second, I let myself wish that someone—anyone—would come up the stairs.

Not to fight.

Not to ask questions.

Just to sit beside me.

Say nothing.

But no one did.

So I stayed still.

And waited for the storm to find me again.

***

I didn’t think I’d cry.

But the second I saw Hemingway asleep on the couch—curled into that same ridiculous little ball, face smushed into the throw pillow—it came up my throat like a wave.

Sloane stood by the door. Arms crossed. Mouth tight. Like if she let herself soften, she’d fall apart too.

Lena knelt beside the couch, one hand resting gently on Hemingway’s back, like she was easing the moment for both of us.

He stirred when I walked in. Lifted his head, ears twitching. Then padded across the cushions and jumped into my arms before I could even kneel.

I held him. Buried my face in the soft scruff of his neck, letting out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t anything else either.

“I’m coming back,” I whispered. “You be good, okay?”

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