Page 57 of Bend & Break
He finally leans back, lips quirking. “So… do we go back to our search now, or do we stay here and see how much trouble we can get into before someone walks in?”
I snort and push at his chest. “Tempting, but I’m not potentially giving anyone at this party a show.”
“So you’re saying you can’t keep quiet?” he murmurs, voice scraping along my skin.
“Doubtful,” I breathe, the word catching somewhere between a challenge and a promise.
We both drift toward the bed, and he drops onto the edge with that arrogant, loose-limbed sprawl of his. I choose the safer option of standing. My eyes wander over the space—rumpled sheets, half-empty water bottles, a half-packed suitcase shoved under the desk.
“I’m guessing that’s not Jonah’s,” I say, nodding toward the luggage.
Mads tilts his head, then bends to pull it out. “Nope. Unless Jonah’s been lying about his name being Miles Bennett.” He flips over the luggage tag, showing me the neat black letters.
The buzz in my chest dulls to a low hum. “He was staying here?”
“Guess so,” Mads says, his gaze flicking from the bag to me. “Explains why it’s the only empty room in this place. No one wanted to be the creep hanging out in the dead guy’s bedroom. With everything else we know, the suitcase makes sense. It seems pretty logical that he may have been packing up to get the fuck out of here.”
“Great,” I mutter. “So now we’re the creeps.”
Mads grins, completely unbothered. “Speak for yourself. It’s only creepy if we get caught.”
We start small—surface-level nosiness. I check the desk, sifting through loose papers and a stack of takeout menus, half expecting to find a receipt with “motive” written across the top.
I vaguely wonder why his family hasn’t collected his things, but there could be a lot of reasons. Maybe they don’t live nearby.It’s not like Mads’s family could just pop over on a whim, either. Regardless of the situation.
Mads moves toward the closet, flicking the light on. It’s mostly empty, save for a couple of hanging shirts and a duffel slouched in the corner.
“Nothing exciting,” I say, shutting a drawer that’s full of spare phone chargers and an alarming amount of gum wrappers.
“Not so sure about that,” Mads replies, crouching. He moves the duffel just enough to reveal something wedged behind it—a matte black pistol, the kind you only see in movies or bad news headlines. He doesn’t touch it, just shifts his head to look at me over his shoulder.
I blink at it, my pulse stuttering. “That’s not exactly a travel accessory.”
“Nope,” he says, voice flat but his eyes sharp. “I’d bet he thought he needed to protect himself. Looks like he was right.” He straightens, hooking his fingers through the strap of the duffel so the gun comes with it, balanced on top.
My stomach knots. “Don’t touch it.”
He glances at me, brows pulling together. “I’m not leaving prints.”
“I don’t care about prints—I care about it going off,” I snap, stepping back like distance will help if it does.
He nods, careful as he lowers the bag. “Alright. I’ll put it back. Maybe leave a note to whoever finds it next that saysPlease don’t shoot us.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, nervous and completely wrong given the situation at hand. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Nothing screams bulletproof like a Post-it and good manners.”
When we step back into the hall, Mads falls in beside me.
We push back into the main floor of the party, the air rife with B.O.
It takes me a second to realize the music has been drowned out by a wall of voices, all shouting the same thing: “Jonah! Jonah! Jonah!”
Mads gives me a look that says,Finally.I’m not sure we even need to talk to him after all that, but we follow the noise into the living room, where the crowd has formed a loose circle.
Jonah’s in the center, standing on the coffee table with a bottle in each hand like he’s about to attempt a world record. Someone yells “Do it!” and, because he’s apparently not one to back down from a challenge, he does—chugging from both bottles at once before attempting a backflip dismount.
It does not end well.
The coffee table splinters under him, and Jonah hits the floor hard enough that even the drunkest people stop cheering. He doesn’t get up.
