I pick up the journal, running my thumb along the spine.
“Self-therapy,” I say, shrugging. “Susan thinks I need a therapist, but this is cheaper.”
He snorts. “True.”
I grab the crown pen too and hand them to the cashier.
“Either that,” I add casually, “or a lighter and some gas so I can burn Royal Oaks down.”
The cashier freezes.
Mason chokes. “Jade?—”
“I’m kidding,” I say with a bright smile.
…mostly.
The cashier slowly relaxes. Mason mutters, “I’m… like… eighty percent sure you were not kidding.”
“I was ninety percent kidding,” I say.
He gives me a look. “That does not make me feel better.”
I tuck the bag under my arm, the journal pressing warm and solid against my ribs.
A promise to myself.
A weapon, but a quiet one.
When we step back onto the chilly sidewalk, the wind grabs the fringe on my jacket and whips it out behind me like wings.
For the first time in days, I feel… not good, but grounded.
Ready.
Royal Oaks doesn’t know it yet.
But I’m coming back.
And I’m not coming back small.
We keep walking until the cold pushes us toward the glow of a tiny coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a boutique. The windows are fogged, the inside buzzing with chatter and the hiss of steaming milk.
“Coffee?” Mason asks.
“Always,” I say.
We step inside, and for the first time all day, I feel almost normal. Warm lights. Indie music. People reading. A couple of artists sketching in the corner. It’s cozy.
But Mason freezes.
Like full-body lock.
His jaw tightens, just slightly, and he mutters something under his breath in a tone I haven’t heard from him yet.
Uh-oh.
“What?” I whisper.
