Page 111 of Without a Trace
No tears. No breakdown.
Just… stillness.
Because under the adrenaline and sarcasm and bruises, I could feel something shifting.
Not in them.
In me.
And I hated that. Hated that they still had power over me, that even after every lie, every half-truth, every cryptic stare, I still wanted answers. I still wanted them.
I dried off, shoving the thoughts down like I always did, threw on a black tank and shorts, and flopped onto the bed with my phone.
Text message: *Chaos Club™** group chat
Scarlett: Just kicked Rhett’s ass. I think he liked it.
Sloane: Do I need to send a lawyer or a vibrator??
Lena: BOTH
I laughed—actually laughed—and pulled the covers up.
SLOANE:
You signed up for the mafia, babe. That comes with mandatory sparring and unresolved sexual tension.
LENA:
You okay??
SCARLETT:
Fine. Sore. Still hot.
Going to nap. Might emerge later in a dress. TBD.
SLOANE:
Make it a slutty one.
LENA:
I’ll tell Hemingway you’re alive.
SCARLETT:
Tell him to avenge me if I die.
I tossed the phone onto the nightstand and burrowed into the sheets, skin still warm from the shower, heart still humming from too many eyes watching.
What the hell were they training me for? What weren’t they saying? Because I wasn’t just mad anymore. I wanted to rip open every secret they buried. Whatever they were hiding, I’d find it.
Sleep took me faster than expected.
But I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
