Page 50 of Into Pitch

My body stiffening as I listen to the intentional way the silence feels as I roll over and look to where Alex had last been.

He’s gone.

Something awful spikes in my chest and before it can fully form, I push it down.

Good. He’s gone.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

I wanted him gone.

I wanted the space and a clean break from whatever the hell last night was supposed to be. From the way he looked at me like he already owned the ground beneath my feet or the way my body had responded like it recognized something it had no business to.

So the absence should feel like relief, but it fucking doesn’t. There is a small, quiet thing that builds a knot in my stomach and a question against my teeth.

Why did he leave?

I shift onto my opposite side and look to the rest of the bus; it is all the same as it always is. The small kitchenette to my left, the narrow aisle, the curtains still pulled over the windows. My boots are by the door where I kicked them off in a haste, but his shoes are gone where they were last beside the table.

Not that I thought they would still be there. He doesn’t seem the type of man to leave things behind as evidence of his presence.

Sitting up slowly, I pull the thin blanket with me and let it pool around my waist. The sheet beneath me is rumpled, warm in places, and I shove that thought away before it can spiral.

Don’t.

I swing my legs off the bed and stand, my bare feet pressing into the worn rug I salvaged from a thrift store years ago. It smells faintly like coffee grounds and old wood, but it is uniquely mine. My space where I have control.

I pad toward the small sink and splash water on my face, gripping the edge as I look at my reflection in the cracked mirror. My hair is a mess, mascara smudged faintly beneath my eyes from last night, and my skin is peppered with marks. Not to mention the teeth mark at my shoulder—the animal.

Sighing, I decide on a quick shower then dress in a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Letting my hair hang wetly down my back as I turn the coffee maker on and prop myself to the counter. I’m halfway through my first sip when the knock comes.

It’s not a polite knock.

Well, it’s not much of a knock at all really.

It’s a pounding, frantic, fist-against-metal demand that makes my heart leap into my throat.

“Sadie!”

Imogen’s voice cuts through the morning and I hurry to the door, wrenching it open and barely getting out of the way as she barrels inside.

“Imogen—”

She spins on me, her eyes wild and red-rimmed, dark curls pulled into a messy knot that screams she didn’t sleep. She smells like coffee and adrenaline—if that were a scent to be coined.

“They found him.”

My brows knit. “Uh… found who?”

Her hands come up, gripping the front of my hoodie like she needs something solid to hold onto. “The guy,” she breathes. “The one I told you about who gave me the tickets from the clinic.”

“I didn’t realize he needed to be found,” I mutter, confused.

“Oh my god, do you listen to anything I say? I told you he ghosted me.” She scoffs.

Had she?

Christ, my thoughts have been a little preoccupied as of late.