No words.
Just a photo.
I open it, and my world fucking stops.
Julian. In my hoodie. Again.
But this time it’s not crushed to his face—it’s hanging loose off his shoulders like he doesn’t even know how to wear it right, one sleeve slipped down, neckline stretched wide and low so I can see the sharp line of his collarbone, the pale start of his chest, the faint black tape still clinging around his throat like he refuses to peel it off, like he wants the reminder of me burned into his skin.
He’s on his knees.
One hand shoved between his thighs.
The other raised, middle finger pointed straight at the camera.
His face is flushed dark, lips parted, tongue just barely out—mocking me, daring me, knowing exactly what this is doing, how it’s twisting the knife deeper. The only caption is a timestamp.
1 minute ago.
I grit my teeth so hard I taste blood.
“Everything okay over there?” Misha asks, glancing at me with one brow cocked.
“No,” I mutter, phone clenched in my fist. “Not even close.”
He snorts. “Julian again?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure whether I want to fuck him or tape him to the ceiling until I get back. Maybe both. Probably both.
We drive through Florence Grove’s welcome sign a minute later. It’s barely a town. Just a dusty cluster of wooden storefronts, one gas station, a post office that looks abandoned, and a bar that doubles as a church on Sundays if the hand-painted sign is anything to go by.
Misha pulls into the lot of a motel that somehow looks worse than the last one—a two-story strip of peeling paint and flickering lights, with a busted ice machine outside and a sun-bleached sign advertisingTVs, Air, Monthly Rateslike that’s supposed to be a goddamn selling point.
He climbs out of the car and immediately starts scanning the lot, already pulling his phone out as he pings contacts and tries to trace signals.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Nothing.
He finally shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “He’s not here,” Misha mutters. “Last ping was two days ago. No fresh footage. Locals said a guy who might’ve been him bought bleach and a burner, but nobody’s seen him since.”
I glance down at my phone again, Julian’s photo still open on the screen and glowing like it’s trying to burn straight through my chest.
After a second, I shut it off, slip the phone back into my pocket, and force myself to focus on the job in front of us.
“Check the back lots,” I say. “See if there’s a security camera on the hardware store. I’ll get the room.”
“Two beds this time,” Misha calls after me as I start toward the office. “Unless you want to cuddle and cry about your boyfriend.”
I flip him off over my shoulder.
Inside, I get us a key—room 207, upstairs. The floor creaks under my boots like it might collapse at any second, and the walls smell like mildew mixed with old carpet cleaner.
I toss my bag onto the bed and sit down heavily, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I stare at the blank TV screen across the room.
Julian’s face is still burned into the backs of my eyelids.
