My knuckles throb where I’ve been grinding them into my thigh, like the word itself is an insult.
Shiloh’s perched on the arm of the couch, one knee bouncing, gaze fixed on the hallway Torres disappeared down. The whole room feels like it’s holding its breath.
“The firewall’s loosening,” Linkin murmurs, still not looking up. “Give me thirty minutes. Maybe less if Torres’s guy is as good as he swears and can give me a good jumping off point.”
Torres walks back in, as if hearing his name summoned him. He glances up from his phone. “He’s already scrubbing feeds. He was able to pull traffic cams near the bar and some street-level stuff. We have the timeline, so they’re getting everything pulled.”
“Good,” I reply. “We need every angle.”
My phone buzzes in my palm. Orion’s name lights the screen. I skim the message, jaw tightening. “Orion’s en route,” I tell them. “He’s three and a half hours out, and he’s bringing backup.”
Linkin glances over, mouth tugging into something sharp. “FBI cavalry. Fancy.”
“We’re not waiting for them,” I mutter, eyes cutting to Torres. “We move the second we have a ping. But if Orion’s close, we’ll have backup.”
A low hum of agreement settles over the room. I drop into the chair beside Linkin, watching lines of code pour down the screen like rain. My chest aches from holding too much. All the fear, fury, the hollow space where her voice should be. She’s out there somewhere. Maybe waking up. Maybe terrified. Maybe fighting.
Hold on, Wildflower. Just hold on. We’re coming.
41
Celeste
My skull is already pounding before my eyes even think about opening, a deep pulsing ache that makes the whole world feel padded and far away. The air tastes wrong; there’s a faint tang of metal under old wood polish. When I push up onto my elbows, the room tilts like it’s trying to slide out from under me.
My old bedroom.
Except—no. That can’t be right.
I look around, and the left wall carries the thin, familiar scar in the wallpaper by the closet. The door still has the shallow dent from when my guitar slipped and hit it just wrong. The sheets breathe out that faint lavender note I used to fall asleep to on long drives. This is my rig. My first home on the road, the one that should be nothing but scrap metal and insurance paperwork.
It’s impossible, but it’s here.
A cold ripple moves through me. I push upright, legs wobbling, and reach for the door where the handle refuses to turn.
The window situation is worse; there are bolts drilled straight through the frame, screws so new they shine. Someone took their time with them.
A bitter chemical film coats my tongue. Flashes stutter through my head: music vibrating through my ribs, Lucian’s face soft in the crowd, the bathroom’s harsh light, copper hair bending toward me, a smile stretched too bright.
A sour chemical sting crawls up the back of my throat.
God. It was the drink.
The room tips again, a slow, nauseous roll that makes the world feel like it’s been poured into a glass and shaken. I clamp my fingers into the mattress, nails tearing the weave, and count the seconds until the room stops trying to spin me off its axis. Air comes in ragged gasps, each inhale a scrape against the back of my throat.
My legs wobble, as if they belong to someone else; when I try to stand, they fold, rubbery and useless. The walls seem to lean inward, the ceiling pressing down as if listening for the sound I’m not allowed to make. Sound itself thins until the only thing I can hear is the frantic thud of blood in my ears.
A soft scuff breaks the silence. I can faintly hear unhurried, measured footsteps moving straight toward the door.
The handle twitches, then turns with a soft, practiced click. A blade of light slices across the floor as the door opens, slow as a curtain. A silhouette fills the frame, then resolves into fabric and bone and hair.
The pink sweater catches my eyes first, the stitching so familiar my skin prickles. The skirt swings with a movement I’ve felt a hundred times. My clothes, stolen from my life, are walking toward me.
Heat drains out of me in a cold rush. Her copper hair falls over one shoulder and catches the light like a red flag. Did the woman from the bar kidnap me because she liked my music?
She laughs and answers the question I thought I asked in my head. “No. I don’t like your music at all. Not what you did today and not what you do in your silly little band.” She peels off the wig as if shrugging off a costume. Her blonde hair floods out, and the world contracts.
The recognition lands like a physical blow, and I exhale in a sharp, shocked gasp.
