I whistle low. “Damn, detective. You gonna tell us her bra size next, or can we pretend you’ve got some boundaries?”
Dane shrugs.
I sigh. “Good work, anyway. Knowledge is power.”
“No,” Diego says suddenly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Knowledge isn’t power right now.Restraintis power.”
Diego
The coffee machine hums softly, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Normally, it would calm me, remind me of my abuela’s kitchen back in San Antonio, where everything smelled like café con canela and the world felt slower. But not today.
Today, the coffee isn’t enough to dull the buzzing static creeping back into my skull. It’s worse now, sharper, like a knife dragging across raw nerves.
And she’s gone.
I set four mugs out on the counter, but my hands itch to do more. To fix this. To fix us. I glance into the living room, where Rett is pacing like a storm barely held in check. Dane is stationed near the window now, his pale blue eyes scanning the city like he expects Zoe to suddenly appear on the street below. Tristan is sprawled on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his face, muttering under his breath.
The energy in the room is suffocating.
I need to move.
As I step out from behind the kitchen island, something catches my eye. A splash of color on the floor, half-hidden under the dark leather skirt of the sofa. It’s a bright, cheerful teal. A color that has absolutely no business being in our dull living room.
Curious, I walk over and crouch down. My fingers brush against something soft, yielding. Not one of our discarded tech gadgets or a misplaced piece of gym equipment. I pull it free.
It’s a book. Small, compact, bound in a soft leather that feels warm and personal to the touch. Unless Dane has been secretly keeping a journal with all the things he doesn’t say, this is definitely not ours. A faint, sweet scent clings to it, and I realize immediately that it’s the ghost of the cologne Zoe hadbeen wearing. My heart gives a painful thud against my ribs. Hers.
“Dios mío,” I murmur, my thumb brushing over the engraving of the year on the cover.
It’s her planner.
“Diego?” Rett’s voice cuts through the static in my head. He’s already striding toward me, his sharp blue eyes zeroed in on the planner. “What’s that?”
“Her planner,” I say, standing and holding it up. “She must have dropped it last night.”
Tristan bolts upright, suddenly engaged. “Wait, her planner? Like, the planner where she writes down her entire life? The one with all her little notes and secrets? That sort of planner?”
I shoot him a look. “It’s not a diary, hermano. It’s her schedule. And yeah, it’s hers.”
Dane steps closer, tilting his head. “Let me see.”
“No.” My voice comes out with a possessive growl that is certainly unnecessary. Dane’s pale eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push.
Rett, of course, does. “Diego, we need to know what’s in there. If there’s anything that can help us?—”
“I’ll show you,” I interrupt, my tone softening. “But we’re not treating this like some kind of strategy document. This isn’t a Sterling Solutions project, Rett. This is her. Her life.”
Rett’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Fine. Show me.”
I flip open the planner, careful with the pages. The inside cover makes me smile despite everything:
Property of Zoe Clarke. If found, please return. If stolen, may your coffee always be lukewarm.
“She’s got a sense of humor,” I say, holding it up for them to see.
“Well, damn,” Tristan mutters, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face. “Witty, organized, and she looks like that? Okay, I take it back. This might not be a total disaster after all.”
“Tristan,” Rett warns, but his tone lacks bite.
