Not even close.
17
ELLA
Sleep should have come easily.
Exhaustion weighed on every muscle. Grief, travel, emotional whiplash, bureaucracy, secrets—it all sat heavy in my bones. By any reasonable logic, I should have collapsed into unconsciousness the moment my head hit the pillow.
Instead, I lay wide awake in Rose’s bed, staring at the ceiling while Paris murmured softly outside.
A siren somewhere far off. A burst of laughter from a passing couple. The faint hum of traffic sliding through wet streets.
Life continuing.
My brain, unfortunately, refused to shut off.
The notebook lay on the nightstand beside me, leather cover catching a slice of streetlight through the curtains. Silent. Accusing.
If anything happens, this matters.
The words replayed in my head like a warning I couldn’t decipher.
Who had she been afraid of?
Who had she been tracking?
And how had that fear connected to the car accident that killed her?
My stomach tightened again, cold unease creeping in.
Tomorrow, Kane and I would go to Étienne’s address. Scope things out, as Kane had put it, in that calm, efficient tone that implied he did this kind of thing often.
Too often.
The thought should have scared me.
Instead—
My mind betrayed me again.
Because the image that surfaced wasn’t danger or fear.
It was Kane leaning against Rose’s sofa, jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes dark and focused entirely on me.
“You worried I wouldn’t show?”
God.
I rolled onto my side, punching the pillow into submission.
Stop thinking about him.
I lasted maybe ten seconds.
Because the problem wasn’t just attraction.
It was uncertainty.
