Page 84 of The Silent Hour

Inside, though? My brain had been turned into last-night’s junk drawer: Dominic Cortez. Lila. The firm. The kiss. And Ethan, especially Ethan—

I took one more look, and drew in a steadying breath. “Showtime,” I murmured.

I grabbed my bag, swung the door open, and stepped onto the pavement. The Florida sun hit me like a physical force, heat shimmering off the sidewalk. My heels clicked in a staccato rhythm as I crossed the few feet to the glass-and-steel entrance.

Meg buzzed me in before I even raised a hand to wave at the security camera. “Come on up,” her voice crackled through the intercom.

Inside, the lobby is exactly how I remembered it: polished marble floors that reflected the recessed lights, chrome fixtures gleaming with antiseptic perfection. It felt staged—like the backdrop of some luxury-property commercial.

I strode to the elevator, pressed the button for the tenth floor, and the doors slid shut with a soft whoosh around me. The hum of the ascent vibrated through my shoes. When the doors opened on Meg’s floor, I stepped into a quiet hallway lined with plush carpeting.

Soft light filtered from sconces in the walls.

Her door stood ajar, as if she’d been holding it open for me. I slipped inside and heard the lock click behind me—an old habit; Mama always said an unlocked door was an open invitation to robbery, violence, or worse.

I kicked off my heels by the mat, the leather of my shoes warm from the walk.

Voices echoed from the living room. “Look who finally made it,” Carmen chirped.

Toya’s sharper, more direct. “You look pretty. Drink?”

I stepped forward and settled onto the sectional. The upholstery was soft, almost cloudlike beneath me.

“Water,” I replied.

Toya arched an eyebrow. “It’s ten in the morning.”

I grinned. “And?”

Meg brushed a curl away from her face, gesturing toward the kitchen island. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed. “You know where everything is.”

I wandered over, grabbed a cold Fiji from the fridge—condensation droplets clinging to the bottle, cool to the touch—and carried it back.

Carmen and Toya were already perched on the couch; the afternoon light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Have I missed anything?” I asked, sliding in beside Toya.

Toya crosses her legs beneath her, blue suede slipping against the cushion. “Nope. We’ve mostly been waiting for you.”

Wonderful, I thought, sinking into the plush depths of the sofa. Carmen gave me a sympathetic smile. Meg tilted her head. I glanced at all three—Carmen’s soft concern, Toya’s impatient curiosity, Meg’s gently arched brow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I sighed. “Just ask.”

Toya didn’t hesitate. “How are you?”

I twisted the cap off my water, listened to the plastic threads unwind. “Alive.”

“Julia.”

I lowered my gaze to the bottle. The label’s crisp green and white print shimmering in the light. “I’m... feeling.”

Carmen’s eyes went wide, then narrowed in mock horror. “Not feelings.”

“Shut up,” I shot back softly.

Toya bumped my knee. “Vague doesn’t work with us, Juju.”

She was right, as always. I closed my eyes for a second, remembering the café yesterday: the hum of conversation, the clink of cups, the way I’d told them every detail—including the part I wished I could un-know.