“I think you should see for yourself, ma’am.”
The train station is twenty yards ahead of me. My ticket is folded in my pocket, my bag is packed, my life is supposed to be moving on.
“I… I have to go.”It’s an impossible choice to make.
Ronny gestures toward the black car idling at the curb.
“I can take you to him.”
I look from the car to the train station entrance just down the street. I give a short, quick nod and follow him to the car.
Ronny drives in silence, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking for more information. The silence is the problem.Is Ronny quiet because the news is bad? Or is he just being Ronny?
Every block we drive, the city gets uglier, meaner. The panic starts to bubble up my throat, hot and acidic.Please no, not to The Cut,I think to myself. The Cut definitely doesn’t mean good news. Not for anyone, but especially for Jax. He wouldn’t have lasted there an hour, it’s been three months.
“Are you heading to The Cut?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Ronny catches my eye in the rearview mirror and gives a short, sharp nod.
As we slow down, I notice a group of men standing near the entrance of the Redline. Their eyes follow the car as it passes.
“You’re sure he’s here?” I ask quietly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Cut isn’t where boys with St. Clair blood spend their afternoons. It’s where people go when they don’t want to be found.So why doesn’t Jax want to be found?
Ronny slows as we turn onto a narrower street. I recognize the place instantly: The pawn shop. The front entrance of the same place Jax and I snuck into when we were still chasing answers and calling The Pit a stupid urban legend. Months. It’s only been months, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
Ronny pulls to the curb and I look at him. “He’s in there,” he points. “I’ll wait right here, Miss. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. This is not the safest area.”
That’s an understatement, but I step out anyway.
For a moment I stand still, remembering the last time we were here. When everything felt dangerous in a way that was almost thrilling.Stupid kids,the owner had said that night. Damn, was he right.
I think about going in, but instead, I move closer to the side window, my breath fogging the grimy glass. It looks empty, but then I see him. Jax’s back is turned, but he’s here. Alive. Breathing. Whole.
A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated relief rushes through me and just as fast, it sours. He looks… fine. Not just alive, but fine.Why is he here?
A blonde with a sharp, messy ponytail steps into view from the back room, holding a tube of lotion. She’s laughing at something he says. The sound doesn’t reach me, but I can see it in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he turns his head slightly toward her.
She takes his hand, his left arm, and starts carefully unwrapping the plastic covering it. She peels it back slowly, revealing a fresh tattoo underneath. She squeezes a dollop of ointment onto her fingers and begins gently smoothing it over it. They both lean in, looking down at his arm, and they laugh at something. Her fingers linger on his forearm as she works, her thumb brushing over his muscle. And most importantly, he doesn’t pull away.
For three months I have been checking hospital registries, knocking on doors, arguing with detectives, defending him against whispers in grocery store aisles. And he is here. In the Cut. Getting new tattoos. With her.
My hands start to shake and I don’t try to stop it. A vicious, feral part of my brain I didn’t know existed wakes up and hisses. All I can see is that ponytail. I think about going in there. I think about grabbing it, using it like a handle to yank her away from him. I want to make her run. I want to make her know that she’s touching something that belongs to me. The thought is so raw, so animalistic, it shocks me. I didn’t know I was capable of this level of rage. Or this kind of jealousy.
He turns slightly, and for one impossible second I think he sees me. But no. He says something to her and she laughs.
The rage doesn’t just leave; it drains away, leaving behind a vast, empty ache. It’s the kind of stillness that happens when something cracks so deeply your body can’t even process thepain. Numbness takes over, like a creeping frost. I step back from the window. The glass catches my reflection and I watch as hope evaporates in real time.
Ronny straightens when he sees me walking back toward the car. He searches my face carefully.
“Is he?—”
“Take me to the station,” I say.
“Ma’am—”
