Page 40 of Without a Trace
But when I reached for Trace—
It wasn’t him.
This man had my eyes.
My mouth.
A stranger I’d never met.
And yet—somehow—I knew him.
My father.
He smiled. And the forest caught fire.
I woke with a scream trapped in my throat.
Palms damp. Skin cold.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t know if it was just a dream.
Scarlett
Iwoke up with the taste of wine still on my tongue, regret lurking somewhere just behind my eyes.
The light filtering through the window was too bright as Hemingway snored at my feet like he hadn’t been abandoned in my bedroom while I played emotional roulette last night.
My head hurt.
My pride hurt more.
And under it all—regret bloomed slow and sour.
I sat up slowly, one hand on my temple. “Okay, we’re just going to pretend none of that happened.”
Hemingway snorted in agreement.
I pulled on the first clothes I could find—hoodie, shorts, emotional damage—and tried not to think too hard.
Hemingway padded after me, loyal as ever, his nails clicking against the wood floor like a countdown.
Downstairs, the house was quiet in the way that made you suspicious—as if everyone was awake but pretending not to be. I padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in my hoodie and shorts, hair a mess, face unwashed, soul halfway to hell.
The girls were already there.
Sloane was perched on the counter with a mug of black coffee, Lena standing by the stove trying to pretend she could cook.
They looked up the moment I walked in.
“Oh no,” Lena said, smiling too wide. “You have that look.”
“What look?” I asked, reaching for the fridge like I wasn’t seconds from spiraling.
Sloane sipped her coffee. “The ‘I emotionally destroyed two men last night and now I need to make eggs to atone’ look.”
I groaned. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was worse,” she said.
