“Maybe. Why?”
“I need a message sent. Anonymous. It’s for a high-profile inmate.”
“Jesus, Miles. You trying to get me killed?”
“You owe me. You remember that,” I say quietly.
He grumbles but finally sighs. “Fine. What do you want the message to say?”
28
Jamie
Thefalafel’sgonecold,but at least she ate most of it. The cherry Coke sits half-empty beside the bed, the red straw bent like it’s been nervously chewed between her teeth. She looks smaller now, sitting against the wall with her knees drawn up, the chain around her ankle slack. The dim light from the single bulb above throws her features into sharp relief—her eyes wide, aware, scanning, even in defeat. I shouldn’t be studying her, but I can’t look away.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice soft but careful.
I pretend to scroll through my phone, but my thumb is frozen. I can’t hide the way my chest tightens when I hear her words.
“Of course, baby.” The word slips out before I can stop it, and her grimace makes me fill with guilt. I swallow hard. “Sorry. Habit.”
Her eyes narrow. “Where the hell are we? Some kind of hunting cabin?”
“Hide house,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. The cut on my temple still stings where she clocked me with the mug earlier. The memory makes me flinch. “Hunters use them. People who don’t want to be found. No cameras, no neighbors. Quiet.”
She blinks slowly. “That’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” I insist. My voice is firmer than I feel. She’s watching me too closely, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Her confusion sharpens into suspicion. “What kind of shady stuff are you and Miles into?”
I look at her. The truth is a knife I can’t risk pulling out. “I can’t tell you,” I say finally.
Her laugh is sharp. “Or what—you’d have to kill me?”
I freeze.
The color drains from her face as the silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, thicker than the walls of this hideaway.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. I can hear her breathing, measured now, the cuff clinking faintly when she shifts.
My chest hammers.
I want to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and keep her safe, and yet, part of me wants to punish her for questioning me. For existing in a way that defies me.
“Can I talk to my mom?” she asks finally, her voice smaller, careful.
I blink at her, fighting every impulse. “You don’t seem to get how this kidnapping thing works,” I say. But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the pull of something that isn’t just authority. It’s guilt.
“It’s not like that,” she says quickly. “We always text once a day. Just so she doesn’t worry.”
I study her face, trying to decide if she’s playing me. Manipulation or genuine concern—it’s impossible to tell. She’s too calm, too careful. Too clever.
“If you don’t want to trust me,” she adds, almost apologetic, “that’s cool.”
I exhale hard. “You’re tied to a bed, Chloe. We’re past that.”
And still, the look in her eyes gnaws at me. Maybe she’s telling the truth. Maybe one text won’t hurt. I stand, running a hand over my face. The guilt twists me inside.
