Page 80 of Without a Trace

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“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

I rubbed my face, exhaling. “I’ve seen her wild before, but that? That wasn’t wild. That was war.”

Rhett finally spoke. “I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t do anything,” Lena said softly. “She did.”

Trace paced, slow and calculated like a caged animal trying not to snap. He stopped near the window, arms crossed over his chest.

“You think she’s okay?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t turn around.

“No,” he said. “I think she’s burning.”

And none of us knew how to put her out.

Zeke

The voices are long gone.

So is the porch.

So is the house.

I’m already deep in the trees—far from the chaos, the tension, the way Trace nearly snapped. Good. Let them spin out in that house. Let them suffocate on whatever mess they just made.

The woods were silent, save for the crunch of my boots and the low pulse of crickets whispering warnings. The moon fell through the canopy, cold and thin, like a blade hanging overhead.

I li a cigarette.

Smoked it like it’s the only thing I trust.

Trace almost hit me. Should’ve let him. Might’ve felt good to bleed a little. God knows something’s coming—we all feel it—and pain might be the only thing that still makes sense.

But this isn’t about Trace.

It’s never been about Trace.

It’s her.

Scarlett Monroe.

The storm wrapped in bare skin and tequila and fire.

She kissed me like she remembered. Like some buried part of her had been clawing toward the surface all this time, waiting for a moment like that to detonate. There was too much heat in it to be for show.

It wasn’t a game.

Not to me.

She’s changing. Uncoiling. Not fully awake yet, but close.

And when she does…

I flicked the cigarette into the brush and crushed it with my heel.

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