Sandro scoffs. “When it comes to something like that, I don’t think you’ll ever find a right way. But she’s the one with all the questions,” he says, dropping his hands as he steps closer. “And you’ve got the answers. It’s not about what you can handle, Gio. It’s about what she deserves.”
I go quiet. His words are like body shots—sharp, precise, right where I’m tender. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if she hates me for not finding her sooner? Or for not recognizing the threat I was to her life?”
“Then you let her hate you. But at least she’ll be hating the truth.”
I nod slowly, and the throbbing in my chest dulls just enough for me to breathe. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, jerking his chin pointedly. “You’re bleeding from your mouth, by the way.”
I smirk, dragging the back of my hand across my lip. “You could’ve warned me before you snuck that uppercut.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, his lips tilting into a crooked grin. “Now get the hell out of here. It’s my turn to blow off steam.”
I shower quickly, the sting of hot water over bruises waking me up more than calming me down.
My knuckles are sore, my chest raw, but I feel lighter than I have in days.
I don’t stop to make a plan. I don’t second-guess it. I just drive.
A white van sits outside her shop as I pull up, several men carting flowers into the back before closing up, and the innocuous sight of it makes my heart pound after the reminder of the black van from Stephanie’s kidnapping.
It’s not the same one, but that doesn’t stop my protective instincts from kicking into overdrive.
Looking through the shop window with a purpose now, I find Stephanie’s silhouette moving behind the counter, her hands rearranging stems in a vase like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.
Just like me.
I step out of the car and cross the street.
No more waiting.
No more silence.
It’s time to give her the truth—whether I’m ready for it or not.
Because if anyone deserves the full picture of what happened to her, it’s the woman who lost her entire world and still managed to bloom.
24
JANE
The headache hasn’t let up since my nightmare last night.
It’s a low, relentless throb behind my eyes, pulsing like the beat of something ancient, a beast clawing its way out of me.
It’s not just pain—it’s pressure.
Something under the surface, pushing, waiting.
I keep thinking it’ll ease up as the day goes along, but it’s been my constant companion all morning, and I knead my temples with my fingertips, closing my eyes against the bright light that filters through the shop window as I try to process.
I can’t stop thinking about what Gio said about my dream last night—how it might be my subconscious trying to tell me what really happened to wipe away my memories.
I’ve been tiptoeing around the idea myself lately, too scared to look it plainly in the face, because the truth behind that possibility is terrifying.
