Page 211 of No Headlines Please

Yes. Definitely.

When I looked to Maddox, he was already awake. But he didn't look startled. Mostly, he looked resigned. He threw back the covers and said, "Hang on. I'll be right back."

"Wait…do you know who it is?"

He looked toward our bedroom door – technically mine, if anyone was keeping track. "No."

My brain was still waking up. "So, why would you get it?"

As another round of pounding shook the house, Maddox said, "Better me than you."

But already, I was out of bed and scrambling for my clothes – any clothes within easy reach. In the end, I lunged for the Bigfoot-boner T-shirt and a pair of leggings I'd left folded on the nearby chair.

I moved fast, but Maddox beat me to the punch, getting dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt before I'd even gotten the leggings halfway up – probably because the faster I moved, the faster he moved, too.

It felt like we were racing.

By the time we burst out of the bedroom with Maddox in the lead, Ryder was already striding past us, wearing jeans and nothing else. Behind him was Tessa in a little pink tank top and silky shorts.

Maddox and I scrambled after them, nearly skidding on the foyer rug as we stopped short behind Tessa.

Ryder yanked open the front door to reveal a familiar figure, looking wild-eyed and breathless.

It was Franny Mulberry.

Her silver hair was mussed. Her floral scarf hung long on one side and short on the other. And her cardigan sat slightly askew, like she'd mismatched one of the buttons.

Without waiting for a hello, she blurted out, "She's alive!"

Holy crap.

She didn't say who.

She didn't need to.

Slowly, we all turned to look at Maddox.

He didn't look the least bit surprised.

Franny bustled into the house and looked around. "Where's your TV?" She perked up. "Never mind. I see it." And with that, she barreled into the living room and grabbed the remote off a side table.

She pointed it at the TV mounted above the fireplace and gave the remote a decisive click. When the sports channel lit up the screen, she made a sound of annoyance and clicked again, bringing up the news channel like she knew the number by heart.

And there she was, right there on the screen.

Sloane Hayworth.

She was crying.

No – ugly crying – on a rural front porch.

She looked nothing like the stunner who'd spent months dabbing gently at her eyes while pouring out her heart for the cameras.

Today, she wore loose sweatpants, a ratty gray T-shirt, and pink fuzzy slippers. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail that was only half-holding.

The porch was surrounded by a gaggle of reporters, hollering out questions, even as two men in suits – security, obviously – stood guard on the steps, keeping the reporters at bay.

Here in the living room, Tessa said, "Woah, that's definitely not Greece."