Page 42 of Into Pitch

I reach for another Twizzler, pausing when my line of sight settles on the charm at my wrist. Observing the way it swings and catches the warm glow of the lights overhead. Lifting my arm, I twist the charm between my fingers, thumb brushing over the tiny etched details.

I’ve touched this thing a hundred times since Pitch, and no matter how many times I stare at it—the answer to it doesn’t just materialize.

I lean back on the stool and close my eyes, letting the conversation from both the man at the bar and the session with Alex replay in my head. Alex’s voice had been steady and calm in comparison to the other man. The way he’d listened without flinching when I told him what Plague had done. With an utterly strange lack of judgement.

You met him where he was.

The words slide into place and my eyes open.

The other guy’s face flashes into my mind and how pale he had been. The way his hands shook around his glass or his voice tightened when he said Plague liked taking him apart.

Like therapy.

I sit forward abruptly, breath hitching.

Therapy.

Alex’s words echo in my head now, stacking one atop the other.

People like that don’t respond to resistance. They respond to participation.

My stomach twists and I drop my gaze to the charm, rolling it between my fingers, slower this time. The metal warm from my skin.

Plague had known exactly what to ask and where to press. He hadn’t forced anything, he’d only offered options. Framed everything as a choice.

I push to my feet and shake my head.

This is absurd, I am now connecting dots that make little to no sense.

You were already open.

I pause, my chest tightening.

Just keep opening up for me.

It’s chance that their words mirror each other. I go to pacing the length of the bus, back to talking to myself.

“Stop, you’re reaching.”

But my brain doesn’t stop, it accelerates through it.

I think about how Alex had acted about Pitch and how he’d carefully navigated the topic. He wasn’t even shocked or curious in the way someone hearing about it for the first time should be.

I press my hands to the counter and lean forward, telling myself to cool all the way down. It’s not possible, I would have known. I heard his voice, even modulated, I would know. I wipe at my mouth and turn to glare at the mirror, pointing at myself. “Stop it, you’re projecting.”

You can sit or stand, your choice.

I laugh once, breathless. “No.”

But the words ring hollow and I can’t stop the comparison, can’t stop the lilt of tones. The calm way both men dissect everything. I am so reaching—right?

I flop back onto the bench and place my palms flat down to the table, forcing myself to slow down and do this properly. To not jump to conclusions like a lunatic.

Okay, Sadie. Line it up. One thing at a time.

Plague is described as methodical and structured. Alex is all of those things.

Coincidence.