Bishop: I’m calling it. Meet at the house.
Cruz: What about Ron?
Bishop: I’ll handle him.
I stare at the message for a second, then glance up at the others as they start shifting out of position, the tension dissolving just enough to move.
We came out here ready for something, and we’re leaving with nothing. Another dead end?
I’m starting to think the Sableine job might’ve been cursed.
“Time to go, baby,” Rafe murmurs, snagging my hand.
He laces his fingers with mine, and we walk, hand-in-hand toward his bike. I should be thinking about the job, about what this means, about what we’re missing.
Instead, I look at the Calloways, and one thought cuts cleanly through everything else.
I am so fucked.
And for the first time since all of this started—I’m not even a little bit worried about it.
TWENTY-NINE
BELLAMY
The garage is already litwhen we get there, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly as they wash everything in a stark, unforgiving white.
Rafe walks in with me, close enough that I feel him without needing to look. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. The space between us feels intentional, like something he’s holding rather than something he’s giving.
Gage is already there, perched on the edge of the workbench, one boot heel hooked on the lower rung, turning a socket wrench over in his hand like he has nothing better to do. He looks up the second I step inside. His mouth curves, and he sets the wrench down.
“Hey.” He reaches out, fingers catching my wrist, pulling me a half step closer before letting go. “You good?”
“Yeah, are you?” I grin. It feels normal, like everything at the salvage yard was an anomaly.
Cruz is across the garage, shoulder angled into the wall, arms crossed, gaze fixed on a middle distance that doesn’t include anyone in particular. He doesn’t look at me when I walk in. His jaw works once, almost imperceptibly, and then goes still.
Lola steps in beside me, and I watch her eyes move around the room—Gage, Cruz, Rafe—before she leans slightly toward my ear.
“This is… intense,” she says quietly.
“That’s one word for it,” Cruz replies, without looking at her.
Bishop comes in last. The door shuts behind him. No one says anything, but Gage stops grinning, and Cruz finally looks up.
Bishop glances around the garage, like he’s taking inventory. “Where’s the kid?”
I shift my weight. “He’s surfing up the coast with a few friends.”
Bishop’s gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary.
“I’ll fill him in when he’s home,” I add.
He nods once, but it doesn’t feel like agreement so much as acknowledgment.
Lola’s shoulder presses into mine. “Okay, so”—she gestures vaguely at the room—“what exactly was so urgent that I had to drop everything and drive over here? Some of us have lives outside of Calloway shit.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens as he glares at her.
