And then, despite everything—the guilt, the fury, the mess of it all—I find myself smiling.
Because even now, she’s fighting.
I reach out, brush a kiss against her forehead, and when I pull back, there’s a smear of red where my blood touched her skin.
She’s trembling. I want to tell her I’m sorry, that I’m trying to save her, that none of this is what it looks like. But the words stay stuck in my throat.
She’s so damn beautiful like this. Terrified, furious, alive.
If only my uncle didn’t have a price on her head.
If only I wasn’t the one sent to collect it.
I keep my head tilted toward the passenger window, pretending to look for her through the streaked glass even though I know she’s nowhere near this place. Rico’s got one hand hanging out his window, cigarette balanced between his fingers, ash fluttering into the wind. He looks restless like he always does when we’re on the kind of errand that promises nothing but trouble.
We’ve circled her building twice. My chest tightens when I see her bedroom window. But I keep up the act. It’s what my uncle expects—obedience and blindness, both in heavy doses.
Rico turns down the radio, glances at me. “You sure this is the right address?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, pretending to check the crumpled paper Victor gave us. “She was living here. Maybe she skipped town.”
He snorts. “If she did, Victor’s gonna lose it. He said we need to find her today.”
I just hum, letting the words sit heavy between us. The air smells like old upholstery, cigarettes, and fear.
We park a block away. The building’s got that same tired look every cheap complex carries—paint peeling, mailboxes dented, the scent of someone’s burnt dinner drifting from an open window. Rico steps out first, stretches, then looks up toward the top floors like he’s expecting her to wave down.
“Let’s get it over with,” he says.
Inside, the hallway is dim. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. We walk past door after door, every number a small mercy that it’s not hers. I knock anyway when we reach her floor. Once. Twice. Silence.
“Guess she’s smarter than she looks,” Rico mutters.
I press my hand against the door, half-hoping, half-praying for it to open. But it doesn’t. The air behind it is still. No music, no footsteps, no trace of her perfume. Just absence.
Jamie must have locked up after he took her.
“Nothing,” I say, stepping back.
“Do we break in?”
I look at him intently. I have no idea what she has in there. Maybe Rico can see something that ties to the time me and her were together. That would unravel everything. There is no way I am risking that. “So we can get caught for a B&E? How about we wait it out? I’ll check the school again tomorrow.”
Rico smirks. “You gonna tell Victor that, or should I?”
“We’ll both tell him,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t notice how tight my hands are balled at my sides.
We make it back to the car, and Rico’s humming something tuneless as he drives. I stare at the reflection of the city sliding past the windshield, neon lights smearing against the night like spilled paint. Every block we put between us and that apartment feels like another nail in a coffin I helped build.
When we reach the warehouse, Victor’s already waiting. His black SUV’s parked sideways near the entrance, headlights slicing through the shadows. The moment I see him pacing, I know this isn’t just about Chloe.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of gasoline and steel. There are crates everywhere—some open, filled with smaller boxes wrapped in plastic. Two men are arguing in the corner, voices low and sharp.
Victor turns when he hears our footsteps. His face is red, the vein in his neck pulsing. “Where the hell have you been?”
Rico starts first. “We checked the apartment like you said. She’s gone. Must’ve packed up and—”
