Page 4 of Without a Trace
The screen door slammed again, Lena’s voice ringing out, sweet and sunlit.
“Kane’s making mimosas!” She smiled, shaking her head. “Sloane says if anyone touches the eggs, she’ll kill you!”
“Too late,” Kane called. “Already scrambled, and by that, I mean emotionally, spiritually, and also the eggs.”
The porch filled quickly after that—laughter, movement. Bodies brushing past each other with that kind of closeness you only get when you’ve survived years of shared secrets.
Lena hugged me from behind, cheek against my hair. “You, okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
She squeezed tighter. “It’s gonna be a good weekend.”
I hoped she was right.
Sloane appeared next, coffee in one hand, the other already flipping off Kane as she passed him on the steps. Her blonde hair twisted into a messy braid, giving the impression she’d already run ten miles and read a full novel before any of us woke up.
“Happy almost birthday,” she said, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t be weird this time, okay?”
“No promises.”
Inside, the kitchen was alive—Kane spun into the kitchen first, barefoot and bold, twirling a spatula like it was a microphone. Rhett followed behind, swaying in place, spinning invisible dials like he was headlining Coachella. “Welcome to the heartbreak house,” he said, raising an imaginary mic. “Next up: pancakes and bad decisions.”
Lena dodged past them with a roll of paper towels, laughing as Hemingway barked at her ankles like a pint-sized security guard.
Sloane brushed past me last, flicking Kane’s ear on her way to the fridge. “I swear to god, if you burned the eggs again…”
“They’recaramelized,” he shot back. “On purpose.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed her cold brew like it was her only anchor in the chaos.
It almost felt normal. The clatter of plates, the smell of burnt toast, Rhett humming something soft and off-key. Like we hadn’t all broken and stitched ourselves together just well enough to pass for whole.
Across the kitchen, Alden caught my eye. Just a glance, but it lingered—steady, unreadable. He didn’t make it more than it was. He held my gaze a beat too long, checking if I was really there—or maybe knowing I wasn't.
My breath hitched before I could stop it. I looked away first.
I always did. Because Alden’s eyes didn’t ask questions—theyrememberedanswers I wasn’t ready to give.
We made plans. Bonfire tonight. Hike tomorrow. Birthday dinner at the big table with the uneven legs. Same as every year.
Except it wasn’t the same.
He wasn’t here.
I hadn’t said his name aloud in months. Maybe longer. But he was always there—quietly living under my skin, pressed into the cracks I never figured out how to fill.
Leaned against the counter, I watched everyone pretend they were fine. Watched myself pretend right along with them.
Rhett looked up from his phone. His eyes met mine, voice too casual.
“He’s coming.”
The air left my lungs before I could stop it.
