“He didn’t,” Chace says without looking up. “You know he didn’t.”
And I do. I do. Logan’s the guy who checks a door lock three times before going to bed, who sends a text every time he steps out just so I don’t worry. He’s the guy who fought through hell just to find me.
He wouldn’t disappear.
“Okay,” Trey says, pulling his phone out now. “We stay calm. I’ll shoot a text to the security teams at the main exits, just to be safe. Maybe he circled back around. Got sidetracked. You know how fans get.”
But even he doesn’t sound convinced.
The lights feel too bright now. The laughter from the surrounding booths too jarring. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to steady my breath, but the edges of everything feel wrong.
Bent.
Fractured.
Wrong.
I glance at Sam, voice barely a whisper. “What if something’s happened?”
He meets my eyes—softer now. And he does what Logan would do. He puts a hand over mine. “Then we’ll find him, Mac. No matter what. We’ll find him.”
But even as he says it, something deep in my chest twists.
The crowd keeps dancing.
The music keeps playing.
But the air shifts—thick and strange—as five uniformed security officers push their way through the crowd toward us.
“Trey Baker?” one of them asks, eyes sweeping the group.
Trey straightens, all humor gone. “Yeah.”
“I’m going to need you all to come with us. Now.”
“What’s going on?” Chace asks, already tense.
“Please,” the officer says, glancing around. “Calmly and quietly. We have reason to believe you could be in danger.”
The word danger slams into my chest like a fist. I grab Sam’s arm, my legs heavy as we’re guided from the booth. People glance our way—phones lifting, whispering starting—but the guards close in, forming a protective barrier around us as they lead us off the festival grounds.
We move fast, hearts racing, silence stretching tight between us. No one jokes now. No one says he’s probably fine anymore.
Back at the villa, the front doors are pulled open and we’re hurried inside. The moment the latch clicks behind us, one of the guards pulls a tablet from under his arm and turns the screen to face us.
“Do any of you recognize this woman?”
The image blinks to life.
Lola.
Black hair down, eyes wild, mask held at her side. She’s in the woods, barely lit by the car headlights behind her. And she’s got a gun pointed at Logan’s chest.
My heart stops. Literally stalls in my chest.
Logan’s hands are raised. His mouth moves, but there’s no sound in the clip. He’s trying to reason with her. To talk her down. But she doesn’t budge. She waves the gun, then jabs it toward the car behind her—forcing him toward it.
The clip ends as he slides inside, Lola behind the wheel.
