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When we reach the car, he notes my trembling. As I slide myself inside, he braces the door open, stern eyes zeroing in on my clammy forehead.
“Where’s your head at? Your feistiness waned an hour ago.”
I choke back the sludge of sorrow fusing into a boulder in my throat. When you strip away the people and love and purpose from a life, what’s left to live for? What marks it as living, other than another day toward the grave? That’s the most morbid thought I’ve ever had. But the adrenaline of the search and fight and fire is all wearing off, and nothing but naked pain remains.
My eyes flit to his, and I get it—I’m making this complicated for him. Leaving broken so he’s left cleaning up the mess with his friend. But I can’t muster the strength to plaster on a fake smile, so I simply say, “My head? Old ghosts.”
And somehow, the flicker of his dark lashes in the moonlight tells me he understands.
“Burner phone?” he asks.
“Yep.”Several.
He removes a small card from his pocket, ripping it in half so only the number is visible on the part he hands me. “Memorize it. If you need anything …” He glances somewhere far off before returning to me. “No questions asked.”
I stare at it, searching for … what? I’m not sure. Maybe a sign that it doesn’t all end like this. “Thank you.”
He taps the hood. “No. Thank you for Mercy. For being good to Rena. Be safe. Be smart.”
The door closes with a bang, and it’s only me, the ten-hour drive ahead, my sullied memories, and my new existence.
WELLS
We’re at her mercy, which is presumably exactly what she wants.
Her plans are meticulously exhaustive.
No stones unturned. No frayed ends.
No embers smoldering.
In any other case, I’d have two thoughts: Time is of the essence because every minute missing is another mile into hiding. And given time, even the best accidentally reveal themselves.
But with Ivy, it’s not about her slipping up and mistakenly showing herself or even bridging another mile. She’s summoning us to her—whether it be to fuck with us or test whether I really will chase her to the ends of the earth, I’m not sure.
I could always read her.
By the time I spoke with her that evening at the masquerade party for her eighteenth birthday, I’d been watching her for a month. As far as marks go, I felt I had a keen perception of her, but in our brief moments by the pond, she blew it all away.
She was more.
Stronger.
Pluckier.
Stormier beneath her well-mannered posture.
She aspired to be the tiny, unexpected pebble shaking the pond, and for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to buff every jagged edge to help her skip across thosewaters.
After that moonlit encounter, she bloomed before my eyes—a night flower in search of illumination. Knowing her deepest motivation and how she held herself when faced with disappointment supplied insight into her thought process. In time, it was like I was in her head.
And she was most definitely in mine.
But her voice on the phone with Ty two days ago was distant. Irate and dejected, as anticipated. But also disassociated. Detached.
The last forty-eight hours, it’s felt like she’s severed my inside view.
Anticipating her next move is more muddled than it’s ever been. And patient stakeouts of my Little Storm are not my style anymore. I can’t twiddle my thumbs and … wait.
