He knows, or at least he suspects. And the fact that he’s not saying anything about it tells me exactly how much he knows.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?” Dash looks back, thinking I called him out.
I didn’t.
“Like Faulker knows something,” Marshall adds, pointing between Faulker and me.
Faulker finally turns his head, slow and deliberate, looks at me, then looks out the window again, smug as hell. “I don’t know anything. But I do enjoy patterns.”
“Oh my God,” Dash groans. “You’re impossible.”
We pull up to the Puck Pad, tires crunching over gravel, and the conversation shifts the way it always does. Jokes, food, naps, and practice.
Marshall hops out first, still grinning like he just got front-row seats to drama he doesn’t want to be involved in but can’t stop himself. Dash claps me on the shoulder a little too hard.
“Text her,” he says. “Or don’t, but in case you can’t tell, you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
Faulker pauses at the door, glances back at me once with that smug look again.
I ignore him and head inside, jaw tight, because here’s the thing: they don’t know. I didn’t get ghosted; I got trusted by a girl who doesn’t give that to just anyone, and then she ran scared.
Dash passes by, making some half-assed comment about needing to grab a box to move to the rental, but he doesn’t head toward his room; he heads straight to my room.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, following him.
“Looking for evidence,” he says easily, already pushing my door open.
I swear under my breath. “Get out of my room.”
He ignores me completely, scanning the space like he’s casing a crime scene. Then he goes straight for the bed.
“No,” I snap.
Too late, he grabs the pillow and sniffs it. His spine goes ramrod straight, and he closes his eyes.
The pillow slips from his hands and lands back on the bed. “You’re kidding me.”
Marshall appears in the doorway, drawn by the tension. “What did you find?”
Dash doesn’t even look at him. Just shakes his head slowly as he steps past us, “I hope you know what you’re doing, man.”
Marshall looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Should I be scared or impressed?”
“Neither,” I say flatly.
He snorts. “Yeah. Sure.” He leaves, still shaking his head.
I stand there alone for a second longer than I should, staring at the bed, at the pillow, and realize I’m not pissed he knows it was Sofie Fairfax here, I’m pissed he knows how she fucking smells.
A light tap on my bedroom door sounds before it opens, and Paul walks in with a plate, nudging the door shut behind him. “Gotta eat, kid.”
I motion toward my nightstand. “I ate.”
“Couple protein bars and shakes made in a factory out of shit the internet swears should not be consumed by even lab rats.”
