He gives me directions to the apartment—turn right on Cedar Street, above the laundromat with the blue awning, metal stairs leading up the outside—and makes me promise to text him when I decide where I’m sleeping so he knows I’m safe.
“And Em? For what it’s worth, I think you coming back is good. Even if Dad’s being an ass about it.” He squeezes my shoulder. “We’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
I get in my car and sit there for a moment, trying to compose myself. The fight with Dad is still ringing in my ears, his words cutting deeper than I want to admit.
But he’s wrong.
He has to be wrong.
Because if he’s right—if coming back here was a mistake, if Bones and I are better off apart, if this whole thing is just me being selfish and reckless?—
Then I just drove across state lines for nothing.
9
BONES
The apartment above Yu’s Laundromat smells like fresh paint and regret.
I’ve been sitting on the couch for the last hour, staring at a glass of whiskey I poured but can’t seem to drink. It’s good whiskey too—the expensive shit I splurged on when I got my first construction paycheck, thinking maybe having my own place meant I should have nice things.
Turns out nice things don’t mean much when you’re too wired to enjoy them.
Emma’s back.
In Stoneheart.
She walked into Devil’s Bar looking like every fantasy I’ve had for the last six months, and I ran like a fucking coward.
I pick up the glass, take a sip, set it back down. The whiskey burns but doesn’t warm. Nothing’s warmed me since that motel room in North Carolina.
This apartment was supposed to be a fresh start. My first real home that wasn’t the clubhouse, wasn’t a room with a bed and a footlocker and nothing else. I’ve spent months fixing it up—new paint, furniture that doesn’t come from the side of the road, actual curtains instead of just blinds. Made it into something that’s mine.
But it still feels empty.
Everything feels empty without her.
I stand, pace to the window that overlooks Cedar Street. The laundromat’s closed for the night, awning dark. A few cars pass by, heading home from the bar probably. The reopening will go late—people celebrating, drinking, living their lives.
And I’m here. Alone. Because Stone told me to stay away from Emma, and I’m trying—I’m really fucking trying—to follow those orders.
Six months of respecting his ruling.
Six months of not calling, not texting, not tracking her.
Can’t track her. Stone took away all my access when he stripped my rank. Changed the passwords, locked me out of the system completely. The tracker’s still in her shoulder blade, still active, still broadcasting—but I can’t see it anymore.
It’s been like going through withdrawal.
For years I had alerts set up. Any time she went somewhere unusual, my phone lit up and I’d justhappento check in. Or show up in New York. Coincidence was a skill I perfected.
Now I have nothing.
No alerts. No access. No way of knowing if she’s safe, where she is, who she’s with.
Right now, I don’t know if she’s still at the bar. And every part of me is screaming to go find her.
