She doesn’t shout it. She says it like she’s empty. Like she’s running on fumes and sheer stubbornness. Her throat works once as she swallows.
“I’ll drop you off at home.”
For a moment, I think she’ll fight me.
Instead, she turns and walks toward my car without another word.
23
ROWAN
Ifeel safe.
The realization comes quietly, slipping in as I settle into the passenger seat and the seatbelt clicks into place. My pulse slows, inch by inch, as Justin pulls away from the curb and heads into the night. I don’t know when my shoulders dropped or when my breathing evened out—only that it did.
I shouldn’t be surprised when he turns down the correct street without asking for an address. Of course he knows where I live. The thought should unsettle me more than it does.
He drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. His jaw works back and forth, tight, controlled, like anger has been given a seat in the back and told to stay there.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“Why are you following me?” I try again.
I get nothing.
Streetlights slide across the interior of the car, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the rigid set of his mouth. He looks purposeful in a way that’s almost unnerving—like this isn’t someunexpected detour in his life. Like handling messes is simply what he does.
“Why did you come?” My voice is quieter now. “You didn’t have to.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “Do you have any sense of self-preservation at all?”
I stiffen. “Some things are worth the risk.”
He glances at me then, just briefly. “Explain it to me, Rowan. Why are some risks worth more than others?”
The question drops between us, heavy and loaded. I can’t answer it without going all the way back. Without opening doors I’ve nailed shut for a reason. I’d have to drag up memories I can’t touch without losing my breath, my balance, my grip on the present.
Silence stretches.
Then he speaks again. “You want to know who I am?”
My breath catches. “Yes.”
“So you can write about me?” he asks. “Turn me into a headline?”
“I wouldn’t?—”
“That’s exactly why you won’t know,” he cuts in. “You don’t get to decide how my story ends.”
I drop my gaze to my hands. They’re still shaking, just slightly.Is this about Anonymous?He knows I write. He knows more than he should. The thought curls cold in my stomach. Have I crossed the wrong people?
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say.
“I know,” he replies immediately. “And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?”
The rest of the drive passes in silence, thick and charged.
