I nod automatically, every muscle locked. “Yeah. I’ll find out what I can.”
“Good man.” He claps my shoulder, heavy and final. “You always come through, Miles. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
I mumble something, turn, and leave before I lose the ability to walk straight.
Outside, the air’s cold enough to sting. I slide into the driver’s seat and just sit there, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ache.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
The world’s spinning, and I can’t tell if it’s from panic or guilt.
Chloe.
Of all the people—
I start the car, slam my foot on the gas. The tires shriek against the pavement.
The drive to The Crest is a blur of headlights and static. I keep seeing her face. Her laugh. I shouldn’t have gone near her. Should’ve left her the hell alone.
By the time I pull up behind the bar, it’s almost empty except for a few of the regulars standing out back, smoking. The lights inside are dimmer than usual. The kind of night where grief hangs thick, but nobody talks about it.
I spot Jamie near the bar, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with glass polish. He looks up when he hears me come in.
“Miles.” His tone’s clipped. Not cold, just guarded. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
“Yeah, well. Tradition, right?”
He grunts. “You drinking?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
He shrugs, pours himself another shot, downs it. “Suit yourself.”
For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. Just the low hum of the jukebox and the sound of ice clinking in glasses.
Finally, I say, “We need to talk.”
Jamie looks at me. “About what?”
I hesitate. For days, we’ve both danced around the same ghost. Chloe.
And there’s no avoiding it now.
“It’s about Chloe,” I say.
His expression tightens instantly. “What about her?”
I rub a hand over my face. “My uncle’s planning something. He wants me to… keep tabs on her.”
Jamie freezes, shot glass halfway to his lips. “You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
He slams the glass down hard. “Does he know who she is to us?”
“No. And he can’t. If he finds out—”
“—then she’s dead.”
