I check my phone.
It’s almost six.
She should've texted by now.
We have a system—she texts when she's locking up, texts again when she's in her car, texts a third time when she's five minutes away.
It's probably overkill.
But after everything that's happened—the trafficking investigation, my stabbing, the threats against the club—overkill feels necessary.
"Stop checking your phone," Mom says. "She's fine."
"She usually texts by now."
"She's probably just running late. Last client went long. You know how it is."
"Yeah. Probably."
But something feels off.
Something I can't name.
A tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with my healing wound.
I type out a text:
Hey, you okay? Thought you'd be done by now.
Send it.
Wait.
No response.
"Gunnar." Mom's watching me. "You're spiraling. She's fine."
"I know. I just?—"
Her phone rings.
She glances at the screen, frowns slightly, answers.
"Hey… yeah?" Her expression shifts. "What? When? How bad?"
My blood goes cold.
"Mom?"
She holds up a hand, listening intently.
Her face goes pale.
Then paler.
"I'm on my way. Call Gwen. Call Reynolds. We need everyone."
She hangs up.
