Where are you, Marcy?I whisper it out loud, barely more than breath. My words vanish into the quiet room. I try her number again, listening to the dull ring before it drops straight to voicemail. It’s done that all day. The longer it goes, the more fear creeps in around the edges of my thoughts. I wonder if she’s hiding, if she’s in trouble, if she’s as lost and alone as I am right now.
A sudden knock startles me out of my thoughts. For a heartbeat, hope flares in my chest, wild and shaky, and I leap up, thinking maybe Marcy finally found her way home. I rush to the door, already rehearsing what I’ll say, already picturing her on the other side with a sheepish grin and some kind of apology.
But when I open it, it’s not Marcy at all.
A man stands there, rain on his shoulders and a serious look on his face, dressed in a suit that’s seen a few long days. He glances down at a card in his hand before meeting my eyes.
“Carrie Saxe?” he asks, his tone all business but not unkind.
I hesitate, gripping the edge of the door. “Yes. Can I help you?”
He gives a faint nod and tucks the card into his pocket. “My name is Wilson Decker. I’m an attorney. I represent some of the men who were arrested at the clubhouse. I’d like to ask you a few questions about that night, if you’re willing.”
I blink, thrown off by his presence. The name sounds familiar from things I’ve overheard, but it feels strange to have him on my doorstep. My mind races through everything that’s happened—Marcy missing, the raid, the ache in my chest that hasn’t let up for days.
He waits, not pushing his way in, just standing there under the thin shelter of the porch. “We can talk out here if you prefer, but it’s important.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the apartment, still uncertain if I want to let anyone else inside my world right now. Finally, I open the door a little wider, voice quiet but steady. “You can come in. I guess I have some questions too.”
He nods in thanks and steps in, careful not to drip rain on the rug. For a moment, the apartment feels different with someone else in it, but I try to keep my breathing steady as I close the door behind him and lead him to the small kitchen table.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offer, mostly out of habit, my nerves jangling. He gives a polite no, settling into the chair across from me.
“All right,” he says, opening his briefcase, “let’s start from the beginning. I just want to hear your side of what happened the night before the raid.”
I settle across from Decker at the kitchen table, folding my hands to keep them from trembling. The air is tense but not unfriendly. He waits, his notebook open but his gaze patient, letting me find my words.
“It was all a mess that night,” I begin, voice rough with exhaustion. “Jinn and I broke up. I walked in on him and…Marcy. My own sister. I thought I knew what betrayal felt likebefore, but that—” I stop, biting the inside of my cheek, then shake my head. “Anyway, I left. I didn’t want to see either of them after that.”
Decker scribbles something, then glances up, searching my face. “And Marcy? Have you seen her since?”
I shake my head, worry threading through my words. “No, not since that night. She’s not at her friends’ places, not at the clubhouse. I’ve tried calling, texting. Nothing. I keep thinking she’ll just walk through the door, but…”
I look away, blinking hard, then force myself to continue. “Honestly, I’m scared for her. I know she makes bad choices, but she’s still my sister. I just want to know she’s okay.”
Decker’s expression softens slightly. He nods, jotting another note. “Thank you for telling me. I know this isn’t easy.” He pauses, his pen hovering. “You haven’t had any contact at all since that night? Not a call or message?”
“Nothing,” I whisper.
He leans back in his chair, watching me closely. “Carrie, you have to understand—the ATF isn’t going to just take your word for it. They’re going to think you’re part of this conspiracy, that maybe you were working with Jinn or covering for Marcy. They’re not going to buy that you and Jinn just broke up and you happened to be at the clubhouse.”
A chill creeps down my spine. I twist the edge of my shirt in my lap, trying to keep my voice even. “But…what about the guys? Jace, Nico, Levi. They know I’m not involved, don’t they?”
That gets Decker’s attention. He looks up from his notes, his gaze sharpening in the low kitchen light. “Why does it matter what they think?”
I hesitate, caught off guard by the question. My cheeks warm and I stare at my hands. “Because…I don’t want them to think I set them up. I just—I care about them. They don’t deserve this.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods, as if he understands more than I meant to share. “I’ll do what I can for them. But for your own sake, Carrie, you need to be careful what you say and who you trust right now.”
After Wilson Decker leaves, the apartment falls into a heavy silence. I stand by the door for a moment, pressing my palm against the wood, trying to steady myself. My hands are still trembling, my mind replaying every word he said.
The warning rings in my ears:Be careful who you trust.
I make it a few steps into the kitchen, hoping maybe I can breathe for a second, maybe drink a glass of water and let some of the fear fade. I’m just starting to feel like I can put myself back together when another knock comes—louder this time, more impatient.
Before I can even reach the handle, the door bursts open. Agents in dark jackets and vests sweep inside, shouting commands. The letters ATF glare back at me in the lamplight. The living room fills with bodies, heavy boots thumping on the worn floor. One agent grabs my arm, another flashes a warrant, and the familiar terror I thought I’d left at the clubhouse surges up all over again.
They begin searching the apartment, opening drawers and cabinets, pulling cushions from the couch. The fear claws higher, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear their words. For a moment I’m sure I’ll faint, but I force myself to stay upright, to answer what I can and keep my voice steady.
