The driver leaves the bakery ten minutes later, locks up, and pulls away without so much as glancing in our direction.
I write down every detail.
Cruz watches me for a long moment. “Gonna need more night recon. We can’t assume this is a fluke, we need to be as certain as we can.”
“I know.” A sigh slips out before I can catch it. “We’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he echoes, smiling faintly. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
I don’t ask why. I’m not sure I want to know.
The notebook feels warm in my hands. The truck hums softly around us. The night air presses in cool and salty through the cracked windows, and for a quick, dangerous second, I let myself breathe.
Cruz shifts, stretching his arms behind his head. “We make a good team, Bells.”
His easy certainty lands like a stone skipped across still water—ripples spreading outward from the point of impact. I shouldn't feel this thaw, this quiet surrender in muscles I've kept tensed for years. But damn him, I do.
“Don’t get used to it.” My voice isn’t half as sharp as I want it to be.
His grin is slow. Knowing and unbearably Cruz. “Too late.”
I snap my gaze to the alley, squinting at the brick wall, the dumpster, the fire escape. My fingers grip the pen too tightly. I count the windows on the building across the street—one, two, three—anything to anchor myself to the job instead of the way his smile just pulled at something buried deep in my chest.
Because it’s stupid—so stupid—but for the first time since we agreed to partner with the Calloways, the idea of sitting in a car with one of them all night doesn’t feel like a punishment.
And that might be the most dangerous discovery of the night.
20
BELLAMY
I tastesalt before I even hit the water. The air hangs thick with it—that strange, heavy warmth that blurs the horizon into something dreamlike and deceptive. Light fractures across the waves in gold ribbons, slicing through memories I can't outrun. This beach used to mean freedom. No messed-up mom bleeding mascara onto the kitchen floor. No teachers with their concerned eyes following me down hallways. No responsibilities crushing my chest for a few precious hours. Just sunshine burning my shoulders, salt water stinging my cuts, and borrowed boards that felt more like home than home ever did.
Back when life still felt like it might open for us, instead of folding shut.
I wiggle my toes deeper into the sand, feeling the cool grit slide between them. The top layer crumbles away dry, but underneath hides that dawn-damp coolness that makes my skin tighten. By noon, this same sand will sear footprints into my soles, force beach-goers into that familiar hop-skip dance to the water's edge.
My body is exhausted from the past two weeks. Eight night runs with Cruz that stretched into the early hours of morning.It’s enough to tire anyone out, but adding in our history put an entirely different spin on it. I crawled into bed every morning feeling like someone coiled my veins too tight.
I’m wide awake mentally, every nerve ending lit up like a Christmas tree, thoughts racing with that familiar electric current that always floods my system before a job.
Only in the ocean does my mind finally stop screaming at me.
“Bells,” Lola calls, voice too bright for the hour. “Stop staring at the water like you’re about to break up with it.”
I huff out a sound that’s halfway to a laugh. “I’m not staring.”
“You so are,” she says, bouncing down the dune trail with her board tucked under one arm. “And you’re doing the broody thing again. It’s scaring the tourists.”
I drag my gaze away from the waves and force a smile. “I don’tbrood,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “This is my tired face. Besides, there are no tourists here.”
She gives me a look—theI know you’re lying but I’ll let you finishlook—then drops her board with a soft thud that sends a small explosion of sand spraying across my ankles. “Yeah, well. Good news. I brought caffeine.” She holds up two canned cold brews triumphantly. “Bad news: they’re not super cold.”
“My favorite,” I say, grabbing a can and popping the tab. It hisses like a warning shot.
Lola grins. Her hair’s up in a messy knot, and she’s wearing a dark gray wetsuit. She looks so much like the little sister who used to run barefoot through the neighbor’s sprinklers that my chest aches for a second. Then she punches my arm, hard enough to sting, and the nostalgia shatters.
“You’re gonna smoke me, aren’t you?” She grins, and for a moment, the knot under my sternum loosens. This—sun on our shoulders, sand clinging to our ankles, Lola chirping like she’s never been afraid of anything—is as close to normal as we get anymore.
