Page 84 of Without a Trace

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And I wished—for one breath, one second—that someone would stop me.

But no one did.

I walked inside, alone and tired of pretending, letting the screen door shut behind me. The air felt different. Like the house already knew I was leaving it.

I climbed the stairs slowly. One step at a time.

When I got to my room, I just stood in the doorway and looked at the bed. At the window. At the blanket I’d curled under with Hemingway last night when everything felt less broken.

I closed the door softly.

Then I opened the closet, grab my duffel, and threw it on the bed.

I didn’t fold anything.

Just grabbed.

Jeans. A hoodie. Underwear. That black dress I never wore but always meant to.

Downstairs, voices rose—sharp and urgent.

I froze, a t-shirt clutched in my hand. I moved to the top of the stairs and listened.

“…this wasn’t the plan,” Alden said.

“It’s the only plan now,” Zeke snapped. “Unless you want her dead.”

“She doesn’t even know why she’s being hunted,” Trace said, voice low, furious.

“She will.” Zeke sighed. “Soon enough.”

I stepped closer to the top of the stairs but don’t go down.

I let the sound of my name—unspoken but burning—settle into my bones like smoke.

Turning back into my room, I zipped the bag shut.

I didn’t want answers.

Not tonight.

I just wanted to get the hell out before I broke again.

***

I didn’t go back downstairs.

Not yet.

The duffel sat on the bed, mocking me. Half-zipped. Stuffed with clothes I didn’t care about, things I barely remembered packing.

I moved around the room like a ghost. Opened the window. Closed it again. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor until the lines blurred.

I didn’t cry.

Not because I wasn’t close—god, I was drowning—but because I didn’t have the energy.

There’s an ache that doesn’t come with tears. Just hollowness.

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