It doesn’t help. The Valium starts to creep in slow, fuzzing the edges, but the fear stays sharp underneath it all. My thoughts keep looping, his smirk in the doorway, the way he said my name like it still belonged to him, the truck engine fading but maybe circling back. Every car that passes on the street outside makes my body jerk. Psycho shifts against my thigh, purring louder like he’s trying to drown it out. Menace kneads my blanket, tiny claws pricking through to my skin. It hurts a little. I don’t move him.
Minutes drag. Or maybe hours. Time feels slippery in here.
My eyelids get heavy first. Then my arms. The shaking eases into these weird, random twitches, like my body’s finally giving up the fight. My breathing slows and my chest doesn’t hurt as much. The closet smells like laundry detergent and cat fur and that faint cedar from the hangers. Familiar. Safe enough.
I think about checking my phone one more time. See if he texted back. See if Dad followed up. But my arms won’t cooperate. Too heavy. Too far away.
Another car rolls by outside and I tense, waiting for brakes, for a door slam, for footsteps on the porch. Nothing. Just the hum of the heat kicking on somewhere in the house.
My head lolls against the wall. The blanket slips a little. I don’t fix it.
The last thing I register is Psycho’s tail flicking across my wrist, soft and warm.
Then nothing.
NINETEEN
LUCKY
Church drags on forever.Maps pinned to the wall, Riot's screen splitting Volkov's life into neat little kill windows, Ghost murmuring ranges and windage like he's ordering coffee. Mason finally slams the gavel, green-lights the play. My blood's still singing when I step out into the clubhouse hall, shoulders tight, mind already running the bait steps in my head.
I pull my phone to check the time. It’s almost eight. Screen wakes up. Notifications buried under club threads I muted hours ago. One text stands out like a knife.
From Savannah. Sent at 1:17 this afternoon.
Firecracker: I need you.
That's it. No follow-up. No emojis. No explanation. Just those three words staring back at me. My heart fucking stops. I hit call. Rings once, twice, then straight to voicemail. Her soft voice laughing in the greeting twists the knife deeper.
"Savannah. Baby, I'm here. Call me back." Hang up. Dial again and get her voicemail, again.
Me: Baby what's wrong
Me: Answer me
Me: I’m on my way
Nothing. No dots. No read. Dead air.
Blade clocks me from across the room, beer halfway to his mouth. "You look like someone just shot your dog."
I ignore him. Grab Riot by the sleeve before he can slip away. "Track her phone. Now."
Riot raises an eyebrow but moves. Laptop flips open. Fingers dance. I give him her number and a map loads up with a pin at her address. "Her house. Been there since about 1:30. Phone's stationary."
Relief and dread hit at the same time. She's home. But not answering. Not moving. I don't say thanks. Just bolt for the door.
I throw a leg over my bike, fire it up, and peel out. Wind rips past but I barely feel it. The whole ride is a blur of red lights. It’s a little after eight when I kill the engine in her driveway. The house is pitch black. No porch light. No living room glow. Just shadows and the faint hum of crickets. I drop the kickstand and jog to the door praying nothing happened to her. The fingerprint scanner beeps green and the door unlocks. "Savannah?" My voice bounces off the walls. "Baby?"
There’s nothing, just darkness and silence. I flip lights on as I move through the house. The kitchen is empty, so is the livingroom. I head straight for her bedroom at the end of the hall. The door is closed. I try the knob but it’s locked. "Savannah." I knock. "Open the door."
Nothing. I pound harder. Wood rattles under my fist. "Savannah! Open the fucking door!"
A sound. Small. Shuffle. Then the lock clicks and the door cracks open an inch. Then the door swings open slowly. Savannah is standing there, one hand still on the knob like it's the only thing keeping her upright. The bedroom light's off behind her, but the light from the hallway lights up her face. She's in the same clothes from this morning, the ones she wore to work, black slacks, white blouse now wrinkled to shit, top two buttons gone like someone ripped at them. Mascara tracks down both cheeks, dried and smeared. Hair's a wreck, strands stuck to her neck with sweat or tears or both. Eyes red-rimmed, glassy, staring through me more than at me. She looks small. Smaller than I've ever seen her. Like the firecracker's been snuffed out.
"Savannah." My voice cracks on her name. I step forward but stop when she flinches, just a tiny jerk of her shoulders. Fuck.
She doesn't say anything. Just stands there breathing shallow, chest rising and falling too fast.
