“They’re keeping you apart from the others for a reason,” he says quietly. “They want to wear you down, get you to talk. They’ll try the same with Levi and Nico.”
I swallow, shoulders stiff with frustration and worry. “Have you seen them?”
“Not yet. They’re being processed. But you need to keep your head, Jace. They want you separated so you start to feel alone.”
I nod, jaw tight. The words feel heavy on my tongue but I make myself say them. “Jinn’s gone, Decker. He took off with the money from the operation. Set us up and ran.”
Decker doesn’t look surprised. He lets out a long breath, then leans in a little closer. “That’s what I figured. But you did right, calling me. Don’t say anything to anyone else, not until I see what evidence they really have and talk to the other two. I’ll do what I can.”
He fixes me with that steady look of his, all business. “Jace, I need you to be straight with me. Tell me exactly what went down. Leave nothing out.”
I take a breath, feeling the weight of every detail, then speak low and even.
“We got word from Jinn last week about a transport job. Out-of-town buyers wanted guns moved across state lines. He said he’d set up the meet, handled all the talking. All Levi, Nico, and I were supposed to do was show up, drive, and keep things looking smooth.”
I shift, cuffs rattling against the bench. “Then he tells us he’s running late, to go without him. Buyers wanted us to take more crates than we’d agreed to—six, not two. The whole thing felt off. But Jinn told us to handle it, so we tried to play along, stall them until he showed.”
I glance down, jaw clenched. “Didn’t matter. ATF hit the lot just as we were loading. Agents everywhere, guns out, shouting. Buyers tried to run, we tried to get out, but they boxed us in. Next thing I know, I’m in cuffs.”
Decker’s eyes don’t leave mine. “And Jinn?”
“Disappeared. Took the money, never showed at the meet. We’re the ones left holding the bag.”
Decker lowers his voice, glancing around to be sure no one is listening in. “Jinn couldn’t have pulled this off alone. What about that girl—the fat girl he was seeing?”
The old anger flares in my chest. I bite it back, steadying myself before I answer. “Carrie isn’t part of this. She didn’t know anything about the deal. She’s not mixed up in Jinn’s mess.”
He watches me, searching for any doubt. “Are you sure about that? Sometimes people surprise you, especially when they’re desperate or scared. If she knew anything, even by accident, she could be a link. Or a liability.”
My fists clench in my lap, cuffs biting at my wrists. I want to defend her, to say she’s the last person who’d help Jinn burn the club. But doubt crawls up my spine—she did run, after all, and no one’s seen her since.
“I’m sure,” I say anyway, holding Decker’s gaze. “Carrie’s not involved. If she was, I’d know.”
Decker lets it hang there, not agreeing, not disagreeing. “Alright. I’ll look into her anyway. It’s my job to cover every angle.” He stands, fixing his coat, already moving on to the next problem. I’m left with nothing but my own words and the hope I’m right.
9
CARRIE
Barely a few days have slipped by since the ATF raid, but to me it feels like time has thickened, every hour dragging its weight behind it. Though I’d intended to leave the apartment to Marcy, I realized after the raid that I couldn’t just leave. Not if there’s a chance she’d try to find me there. So I’m back home, and I try to keep busy, picking up around the apartment, doing laundry, letting the television drone in the background, but nothing helps. Every window I look through, every cup of coffee I set down and forget, feels like a reminder that they’re still locked up and I’m here, useless, waiting for news that never comes.
I keep checking the local news channels, searching for something that might sound hopeful, or at least clear. The anchors repeat the same story over and over—a major bust, federal agents seizing weapons, several suspects detained, charges pending. No names are given, only “members of a known motorcycle club” and “possible accomplices.” My stomach knots every time I hear the words. No one mentions Jace or Levi or Nico. There’s nothing about how anyone wastreated, nothing about what actually happened. The world is content to let their story be rewritten by strangers.
Yesterday, I couldn’t stand it any longer. The silence in the apartment felt like it was pressing in on me, squeezing my lungs, so I got dressed and made my way down to the police station. The sky was gray, a dull ache hanging overhead, and my shoes felt too loud on the tile floor as I stepped into the lobby. I waited behind a woman trying to post bail for her son, her voice thick with worry. When it was my turn, I stepped up and asked if I could see the men who were brought in from the raid, my voice careful, hoping not to sound desperate.
The officer behind the glass barely looked up. She asked my name, who I was there for, and I told her. She typed something on her computer and shook her head. “No visitors. No communication. They’re being held for federal processing. You’ll have to wait until they’re moved or their lawyer sets something up.”
I pressed, voice breaking a little, asking if I could at least send a message or know if they were safe. She met my eyes then, just for a moment, and I saw she had nothing for me, not even pity. Another officer hovered nearby, watching the exchange. I realized then that it was over before it had even started.
As I walked back to the car, my throat felt tight. I stared at my hands, at the little lines of ink where I had scribbled their names and questions I never got to ask. I wondered if they knew I was thinking of them, if they felt as alone as I did.
Now the apartment feels emptier than ever. Marcy’s room is still quiet, her bed made, as if she vanished along with everyone else I ever cared about. I sit at the kitchen table, staring out at the rain trickling down the glass, thinking about all the words I would say if I had the chance.
I sit by the window, watching the street below turn glossy with rain, and realize I’ve checked my phone at least a dozentimes in the last hour. I keep hoping for a message from Marcy, even just a “hey, I’m okay,” but the screen stays blank, cold in my hand.
Despite everything that has happened between us, worry for her rises up and crowds out the rest. I called every friend I could think of, listened to their awkward silence, heard them say they haven’t seen her, not since the night of the raid. I drove past her old haunts, the diner by the highway, the corner store where she sometimes hung out after work. No one has spotted her.
My phone vibrates once, but it’s just a spam alert. I toss it onto the table and let my head fall into my hands. All the old anger and betrayal I felt for Marcy, all the ways we failed each other, fade behind a sharp, simple need for her to just be safe.
