Page 2 of Without a Trace
one would have to let her go.
Scarlett
He leaned against the back rail of the boathouse, half in shadow, half bathed in that golden light that only happens right before the sun disappears. A curl of smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers, trailing upward in lazy defiance. One boot planted, one crossed over—unbothered, with the air of someone who expected to be admired for it.
I didn’t recognize him. Which was strange, because I knew everyone on this dock.
I turned the silver bracelet on my wrist without thinking. I always did when I was anxious. My flip-flops slapped against the wood as I slowed down, suddenly aware of the way my lake-wet tank top clung to my skin.
His eyes lifted. Dark, unreadable, too calm for someone caught staring.
“You lost?” he asked, voice low and lazy, like summer heat. his fingers drummed a single beat against his thigh.
“Nope,” I shot back, chin lifted. “Are you?”
His mouth curved—just a little. Not a smile. Something meaner. Perhaps smarter. He tilted his head slightly, eyes on meas if I’d committed a sin just by walking into his line of sight. Or a miracle.
God, he was older. Maybe nineteen. Barely. But he carried it like he’d already lived two lives.
He nodded toward the lake. “You with Alden?”
“Yeah. I’m Scarlett. His friend.”
He didn’t offer his name. Just studied me for a second longer than most people could survive without looking away. And I—stupidly—stayed still for all of it. His thumb dragged slowly across the side of his cigarette like he was thinking too hard.
“Thought you were his girlfriend,” he finally said.
I snorted. “God, no. That would end in flames.”
He laughed once, quiet, surprised. “You don’t seem like the type to get burned.”
“Depends who’s lighting the match,” I said.
Then came the look—the shift. He hadn’t expected me to strike back that sharp. His voice dropped. . “That so, Sunshine?”
I stepped closer, the dock creaking under my feet. “You staying here?”
“Just for the weekend.”
“Cool,” I said, like it wasn’t suddenly hot under my skin. “You smoke much, or just when people are watching?”
That smile came back, sharper now. “You always this mouthy?”
“Only when I’m bored.”
We were closer now. Close enough that I could see the ink peeking out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Black lines. Sharp, swirling. Something dangerous I wanted to trace with my fingertip.
He held the cigarette and lighter out to me. I took it. Just to prove I could.
And he didn’t ask for it back. Just watched me, memorizing something—maybe the damp ends of my hair, or how my voice stayed steady.
“What’s your name?”
“Trace.”
Of course it was.
I tucked the cigarette behind my ear and held up the lighter. “Guess I’ll keep this.”
