Page 80 of Freestyle
Lyndsy softens just a little. “Good. Because I swear to God, if either of you let something happen to her…”
Nix finally speaks, voice low. “We won’t.”
She studies him abeat longer, then nods once. “Her bag’s in the closet. I added her migraine meds and two of those snack bars she hoards in her drawer. Don’t forget her charger. She panics when her phone dies.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“And Gray?” she adds just before I turn.
I meet her eyes.
“She might not be saying it, but she’s counting on you.”
It hits like a slap and a benediction all at once.
“I know.”
Nix grabs her charger while I crouch beside the desk drawer she left half open. It sticks slightly when I pull, something is wedged in the back, behind her notebooks and gum wrappers.
I reach in.
And freeze.
It’s a folded stack of pink notes, creased, worn, the edges soft from being handled too many times. I flip one open and feel the bottom drop out of my stomach.
Scrawled handwriting. No name. No return address. Just words that crawl under my skin.
“I like when you bleed for me.”
“I’ll find you, even in the dark.”
A chill runs throughme.
“Gray,” Nix says softly, across the room. I look up, and he’s holding something in his hand. His face is pale.
A small plastic toy. A pink pony. Cracked down the side. And its eyes…
Gouged out.
No. Carved out.
“Jesus,” I whisper. I stand, notes in one hand, the pony in the other. “This is what she hasn’t been telling us. She’s been dealing with this alone.”
I tuck the last note deep inside the side pocket of her bag, right beneath the charger and the stupid pink hoodie she always swears she’s outgrown.
I can’t stop staring at it, the handwriting still burned into my memory, jagged and smug. That A at the bottom feels like a brand.
Nix is by the door already, pacing slow, fists clenched and jaw ticking like he’s chewing on a scream.
“She kept them, Gray,” he mutters. “Every single one.”
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “And she never said a word.”
He looks at me, eyes sharp. “Would you have?”
And there it is.
I look away.
