Page 64 of Without a Trace

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“You are,” he said, voice low.

“No. I’m fuckingnot,” I hissed. “Because whatever this is—it was never about me, was it? It was about what I am. Or what I don’t know I am. Isn’t that right?”

He didn’t answer. And that was worse than any lie.

The ground shifted under me, something snapping.

“I hate all of you,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

For now.

***

I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to move.

I walked out the door, heart pounding, eyes burning. The house was too full of secrets and silence, and I couldn’t breathe inside it anymore.

The gravel bit into my soles, sharp and unrelenting. But I welcomed it. I wanted to feel something that made sense. Something sharp and simple.

The dock came into view. The lake still, pretending nothing had changed.

But everything had.

I didn’t notice him at first—not until I was halfway down the wooden planks, my hands shaking, breath uneven.

The man from the car.

He was sitting on the edge of the dock, legs stretched out, a cigarette between his fingers.

“Rough morning?” he asked, voice lazy, low.

I stopped walking. “What are you doing out here?”

He took a drag, exhaled slow. “Watching.”

“Watching what?”

He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes dragging down my legs, lingering. Not in a gross way—but in a way that made me want to wrap my arms around myself. Like I was a puzzle he’d already solved.

“You.”

My chest tightened. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette into the lake and rose to his feet with a slow stretch.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Know what?” I snapped.

He tilted his head. “Everything.”

I folded my arms, trying to keep my voice steady. “If you’re just here to fuck with me—don’t. I’ve had enough of that from everyone else.”

“I’m not the one lying to you,” he said. “They are.”

My pulse ticked hard. “What do you mean?”

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