Page 33 of Beautiful Ruins
Right. That.
The server took Jasmine’s coffee order, givingme a moment to process her question. He slunk away, casting suspicious glances over his shoulder. We probably looked like trouble, two women sitting there with grim faces and more baggage than the handbags sitting on the table.
My chest tightened. Would she even believe what I had to show her? “You’ll want to see it for yourself.” I reached into my bag, my throat dry, and pulled out the note.
I hesitated. This wasn’t just paper. It was a grave I wasn’t ready to open, yet I had no choice. With one more quick look around, I slid it across the table, the paper skimming over the scratched wood surface.
The couple in the corner were laughing together quietly now, oblivious to anyone but each other. The kids ran past again, the mother issuing an empty threat while she sipped her coffee and stared at her phone. The normalcy around us felt surreal, like we were living in our own little bubble no-one else could see.
Jasmine eyed the note, frowning. It felt like high school all over again, passing notes between each other, attempting not to get caught by Mr. Matthews as he scribbled out math equations on the whiteboard. Except this time, it wasn’t getting sent to Mr. Hargrove’s office that had my insides twisting.
I’d read the words a dozen times, hoping I’d misunderstood. Handing it over now felt like surrendering a piece of him.
Finally, Jasmine took the note from me. The paper crinkled in her hands, her fingertips trembling just slightly as she unfolded it. I barely blinked as her eyes darted over the page, and she frowned as though she couldn’t quite make sense of the words. The seconds stretched, each one like a stone dropping into the pit of my stomach.
What if showing her had made everything worse? Was I dragging her back to that nightmare right alongside me?
Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes jumped up to meet mine. “Logan left this?” Her words were practically whispered, almost lost under the clinking of cutlery, but I heard the slight disbelief in them. Maybe even a hint of something else.
I nodded, gripping the teacup. “I found it while cleaning out my room. He left it that night, before . . .” I pressed my lips into a thin line. She knew what night I was referring to. “Hollow Creek. That’s where Logan and I used to collect tadpoles. My mother . . .” With another quick glance around, I leaned closer, lowering my voice as memories of how obsessed my mother would become surfaced like a dark cloud. “She was investigating something there. She had notebooks full of addresses. All farms.”
Jasmine stared at the crumpled note like it might burst into flames. “I don’t . . .” She rubbed her forehead, her breath hitching. “God.” The silence stretched for what seemed like forever. Then she spoke again, her voice quieter. “You think Logan knew something about what she was looking into?”
“I don’t know,” I said, lifting a shoulder. “But how could I not?” Even now, Logan’s handwriting seemed to scream at me from the page, words he would never get the chance to say. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”
Jasmine blew out a breath and slid the note back over to me. I grabbed hold of it too fast, cramming it into my handbag. Too many ears in this town. Too many eyes. Especially ones parading around in Ridge Riders leathers.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, a sign she hadn’t given up on me. “And you think this place, Hollow Creek . . . you think there’s something to it?”
“Has to be,” I said, the desperation clawing out with mywords. “Mum was investigating the farm just before she died. I just don’t know what it had to do with Logan. Rowan doesn’t want to know about Hollow Creek, about what Logan might have known. Told me to leave it alone.”
Jasmine’s eyes widened. “Rowan knows?” Her voice slipped past the edges of control, past the cool she always wore like a fashion statement. “You think it has something to do with the MC?”
I bit the side of my bottom lip, nodding. “Which is why I need your help.”
She looked at me like I’d swung a fist her way. “My help? How could I possibly—” She slammed her mouth shut, plastering on a smile as the server brought her coffee over and placed it on the table in front of her.
The scent of the fresh brew wafted into the air, sharp and bitter.
When he stepped away, Jasmine leaned forward, grabbing a sugar packet from the small bowl in the centre of the table. Her hands trembled. That wasn’t just nerves, that was real fear. And I’d dragged her back into it.
“No way,” she said, tearing the packet with her teeth. “That’s a death sentence, Coop.” She poured the sugar into her coffee and stirred, her glare burning into mine. “If you think the Riders know something, that’s even more reason to stay away. Rowan was right. You should walk away while you still can.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I said, my hands tightening around my cup. “Please. You’re all I have right now. This is Logan we’re talking about. I need to know why he killed himself.”
Fear pulsed beneath my skin, but I shoved it down. There wasn’t room for both of us to question my sanity.
Jasmine pressed her lips together, her eyes narrowing as shemulled over my request. I could practically see her weighing everything—the risk, the history, the loyalty.
“And what do you plan on doing? You can’t just walk in there and start asking questions. It doesn’t work like that. You know what it’s like. The town hasn’t changed. The Riders still own it.” She hesitated, shaking her head. “And you’re the chief’s daughter. You’re a walking red flag for those blokes. I don’t know about this, Sadie.”
“I know. But I can’t let it go. It’s Logan, Jazz. You remember what he was to me. I can’t let him go without knowing why. Not again.” My words were suffocating under the desperation I tried to keep at bay, but it was useless trying to pretend I was anything but desperate.
Jasmine continued to stare. “Oh, for crying out loud.” She groaned, loud and dramatic, gaining the attention of those closest to us. “Fine. But this is insane. You know that, right?” One manicured finger jabbed at the air between us. “If we’re doing this, then you need to cover that bruise.” She lifted an eyebrow as her gaze dragged down my chest. “And you aren’t wearing that ratty T-shirt. God”—she scrunched up her nose like it might crawl off me—“how old is that thing?”
I glanced down at my well-worn band tee, at the faded logo, and tugged at the frayed collar like I could somehow straighten it out. “It’s vintage.”
She picked up her mug, pausing for a second before pressing her lips to the edge, not yet taking a sip. “It screams hobo, Coop,” she said, wincing as she finally took some of the steaming liquid into her mouth. “And you aren’t wearing it. You think anyone will even look at you twice in that get-up?”
