Page 28 of Bend & Break
“You still have it?” It’s a daft question, I realize.
She nods quickly, the motion clipped, almost impatient.
I shift closer. “Let me take a crack at it.”
Blake rolls her eyes. “Since when are you a professional hacker?”
“My mum works for a data forensics firm,” I shrug. “She used to show me how to get past encrypted files when I was a kid. Stuff she probably shouldn’t have, but I loved it. I can’t promise anything, but I might be able to get to it.”
Being the youngest meant I was always underfoot, always needing something to keep me occupied so I didn’t drive everyone insane. Football wasn’t enough on its own. Not when I was ADHD to the max and needed ten different things going on at once. My brothers could burn off their energy just training, but I’d come home still buzzing, so Mum handed me puzzles, passwords, little challenges to crack. Turns out I liked it. Enough that I stuck with it, and ended up majoring in information systems.
Her eyes widen, doubt and relief flickering at the same time. “You’re serious.”
“Dead.”
She swallows. “You really think you can do it?”
“I think it’s worth a shot.” I pause, watching her shoulders tighten with everything she’s been carrying alone. “And Blake?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to keep burning yourself out trying to hold this all together. Whatever’s on that drive, we’ll deal with it together.”
Chapter 11
Blake
It’s the first time in weeks my chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. Saying it out loud—everything about the girl from Briarwood, the drive, the silence since—was brutal, but it’s out now. Not just mine to carry. It’s small, but the weight eases just enough for me to notice.
Mads offers to grab our stuff from the car, and I don’t argue. The quiet while he’s gone is almost a relief. I get a few minutes to breathe, to let myself feel the edge of that release before the panic starts creeping back in. By the time he returns, a bag slung over each shoulder, I’m steadier than I was. Still wrecked, but not completely unraveling.
I’m caught between wanting to collapse onto the floor and pretending I’ve got it under control.
He drops the bags down without comment, eyes flicking over me in that way that makes it impossible to hide how close I am to cracking.
He doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. Too knowing. My skin prickles under it, and I cross my arms like that’ll somehow make me harder to read. Spoiler: it doesn’t. He’s clocking every unspoken tell I have, and the worst part is I can tell he’s not even trying.
He just knows me.
I’m not exactly at my emotional best right now, but he hasn’t bolted. Or complained. Or made me feel like this is all too much. First, our punishment. Now all this. He just keeps showing up.
And that’s the part I don’t know how to deal with. He’s still here, just waiting for me to decide what comes next. No pushing, no questions, just… steady.
It throws me, because he’s nothing like what I expected. Kind, patient, careful in ways I didn’t think he could be. Which only makes it harder. Because if I open this drive and what’s on it is as bad as I expect, I’m not just dragging myself into it. I’m dragging him, too.
But I need answers. I need to know what’s on it before my brain melts from the speculation. Worst-case scenarios have been on loop in my head all day—some realistic, some straight-up tinfoil. Unfortunately, at this point, I half expect the file to open and trigger a self-destruct countdown or a voice that says,“Nice try, dweeb.”
When he drops the bags on the floor, I crouch and unzip mine. From the inside pocket, I pull out one of my shin guards, slide a finger into the slit along the padding, and tug out the USB I’ve been hiding there. I toss it to him with more force than necessary.
Mads catches it easily, dropping onto the bed with the kind of arrogant athletic grace that makes me want to both kick him in the jaw and immediately straddle him.
Unfortunately, I don’t think either of those things would help me access the drive any faster.
Or would they?
He flips the USB in his fingers, squinting at it. “If this bricks my laptop, you’re buying me a new one.”
“The fact that I’m even letting you touch it at all speaks volumes to my desperation,” I shoot back.
