Page 170 of Their Arrangement
The message was short.
I stared at it.
Read it again.
Then typed.
If you wanted me dead, you should’ve just let him say hello.
No response. None needed. She’d already made her move. Now it was my turn. I stood slowly. Every joint ached.
Like fear had settled into my bones and refused to leave. I washed my hands. Twice. Not because they were dirty. Because they wouldn’t stop shaking. I stared at myself in the mirror. Mascara perfect. Lipstick still intact.
The girl in the glass looked fine. Polished. Obedient. Disposable. But inside? I was drowning. And worse? I wanted someone else to pull me under.
Wolfe.
Barron.
Anyone.
Just so I didn’t have to pretend I was the one holding the knife. I straightened my blouse. Smoothed down the front. My palms were damp.
There was a small smear of coffee on my wrist I hadn’t noticed until just now. I wiped it away. Watched it disappear. Like none of this had happened. Like I wasn’t standing in a locked bathroom stall wondering if the man I once called safety would be the one to end me now.
I looked at my reflection. Harder this time. No makeupout of place. No visible bruise. No blood. No guilt. Just bone-deep ache.
And a girl who had no more lines to walk. Only cliffs. I touched the corner of the mirror. It was cold. My breath fogged the glass.
“You’re running out of time,” I whispered.
24
WOLFE
I wake before the alarm.There’s never a need for sound. My body doesn’t sleep so much as wait. Wait for the light. For the shift in air pressure. For the next crack in my control. There’s always tension. Always breath held somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Always silence I don’t trust.
The bed is half-made.
The pillow on the right side is untouched.
Always untouched.
It never needs to be fixed.
I used to tell myself I liked it that way. Clean. Cold. Controlled. But some mornings—this morning?—
I wonder what she’d look like asleep there.
Cloe.
What her breath would sound like against the cotton. If she’d tangle her legs in the sheets. If she’d flinch when I ran my hand across her hip before she woke. Not for seduction. For reassurance. To feel the difference between restraint and surrender.
I shower without heat.
Let the cold water hit until my pulse slows.
I brush my teeth with one eye on the monitor. She hasn’t left yet. Her apartment door is closed. Hallway still dim. The lights in her building always flicker between 5:20 and 5:22 a.m.
