Page 188 of Without a Trace
“I don’t care what she wanted. I don’t care what she’s trying to prove.”
The words came out sharper now, closer to the edge. “She’s not supposed to face this alone.”
Zeke’s eyes met mine. “She chose to.”
And that was the problem.
She didn’t run. She chose.
But that didn’t mean I’d let her stay gone.
Not without a fight.
Trace
Ifound Alden on the beach.
He didn’t turn when I approached. His feet were half-buried in the sand, arms loose at his sides. The sunrise painted the world behind him in washed-out gold, but he looked carved in shadow—tense, silent, fists marked.
He’d hit something. Probably more than once.
“She’s gone,” I said.
No response.
“She left with Brielle.”
“I figured.”
I stepped closer, the sand cracked beneath my boots.
“She’s a wild card, Trace,” Alden said finally. “Did you really think she’d stay after everything? After the way we handled her—fed her bits of the truth, dragged her through hell, made her feel like she was being watched more than protected?” Alden dragged a hand through his hair, then scrubbed it over his face like he could wipe off the weight of it all.
My stomach twisted.
“She’s been running since we got here,” he added. “The only thing that ever slowed her down was us.” His eyes dropped to the sand. He kicked a shell half-buried near his foot, watched it skitter across the tide line and vanish.
“And now we’ve lost her.”
“No,” he said. “We forced her hand.” A gust of wind blew between us, and he shifted, shoulders squaring like he was forcing himself to face it.
He finally looked at me—eyes bloodshot, voice flat.
“We knew she wouldn’t just sit here forever while the world kept spinning without answers. She’s not the type.”
“I should’ve stayed with her last night.”
“Yeah,” Alden said. “So should I.” He bent down, picked up a small rock, turned it over in his palm. Then tossed it hard into the ocean.
We both fell silent, the waves pulling back and returning like they knew something we didn’t.
He was quiet a beat, breathing slow but unsteady, like he was fighting something inside him. Then he said it—low, but certain. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
The question sat heavy between us.
I didn’t have to ask what he meant.
The pull in my chest had been building since I woke. Something ancient and wrong and threaded into the marrow. Like a thread tugged tight from a distance.
