I don’t flinch, but the words hit hard, because she’s not wrong. I open my mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but Bridger cuts me off before I get a single word out.
“Clay’s out of prison.”
The world narrows.
Bridger keeps going, voice rising like a wave about to crash. “He’s pissed, Damian. His shop is gone. His house is gone. His wife’s gone. He knows about Vick. He knows Joel’s dead, about Zero, and heknowswe had something to do with it all.”
My stomach knots, tight and cold. I feel Neve’s eyes snap to mine like she’s watching something click into place. “And he knows about Marlowe too, doesn’t he?”
The words don’t just hit. They collapse something inside me, bone and breath and every raw, visceral thing I’m made of.
Neve drops the rag in her hand. “You think he’s going to come after her?”
I look at her, jaw tight. I don’t speak right away. I can’t—not without the weight of it landing wrong. Not without her hearing the truth in my silence. Clay is a fucking monster.
So I just nod.
Curt. Heavy.
Because yeah.
He is. It’s what I tried to deal with in Vegas.
Neve grabs me by the shoulders. Not rough, but firm. Intentional. She pulls me toward her, and before I can look away, she makes me meet her eyes. And for once, it’s not hard. She’s not the kid I used to have to protect from the world. Not the little girl who used to trail after Bridger with skinned knees and wide eyes, begging to ride on the back of my motorcycle. She’s grown into this sharp, unshakable thing—this woman who stands toe-to-toe with a storm and doesn't flinch.
And now she’s Marlowe’s friend. Somehow, that means more to me than I can explain.
“Don’t treat her like Laura,” Neve says, voice quiet but full of steel. The words land so deep they knock the wind out of me. Neve doesn’t blink. She doesn’t soften at Laura’s name. “You feelall this guilt for her. But Laurahad her own demons she was running away from, it wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.”
I swallow, but my throat’s dry. Tight. She’s wrong. It was my fault.
“Marlowe isn’t Laura,” she continues. “She’s stronger. Fiercer. She doesn’t want a softer version of you. She wants the one with blood on his hands.”
I start to shake my head, but Neve cuts me off again, relentless now. “Shesmiledwhen you snapped Zero’s neck.”
I remember it. The way Marlowe looked at me after it happened. Not with fear. Not even with shock. With fire in her eyes. Like I was some goddamn hero.
“She doesn’t care how dark your heart is,” Neve says, voice gentling now, but still firm. “As long as it’s hers.”
I let that sit in my chest like a brand.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel myself unravel—not with rage, not with violence—but with the kind of sharp clarity that knocks everything else sideways. Because I’ve been treating Marlowe like a ghost. Like someone I’m already destined to lose.
But she’s nothing like Laura.
And if I don’t start acting like I believe that…
I will lose her.
“I should go find her,” I say. And after tonight, it’ll all be over. Clay will be gone forever. The threat erased. Everything will be clean and safe. But the thought turns bitter in my gut. I look down at my phone. The screen is still blank. No text messages. No confirmation. No proof that the job is done. My throat tightens. Something’s wrong. Something went wrong. I feel it, deep in my chest—that sharp, sick twist that always comes before everything falls apart.
Chapter Nine
MARLOWE
Iwalk fast, my feet pounding down the boardwalk in a rhythm that matches the beat of my pulse. The air is cool and briny, kissed by the last light of sunset. Salt, sea, and fading sun mix in the hush of twilight. My vision tunnels ahead, toward The Wheel on the Steel Pier, its lights just flickering on.
I wish I could hate Damian. That would make this so much easier. But I don’t. Not even a little. Not even the parts I should—the sharp edges, the silence, the bright red flags waving in my face. I don’t hate a damn thing about him. But I hate the way he makes me feel like I’m asking for too much, when all I want is something real. Words. Honesty. A moment where I don’t feel like I’m begging for scraps of him. I want all of him. I want the part he keeps locked away. It’s the worst thing. Wanting someone who won’t even meet you halfway.
