No. That’s not possible.
I stammer something, backpedal, and wave for another ride. The next stop is the clubhouse.
Ithasto be there. If anywhere still exists—it’s that.
The whole ride there, I’m shaking. Mumbling their names like a prayer I don’t even believe in anymore.
Dagger. Noir. Cass. Dagger. Noir. Cass.
Over and over, like repetition might make themrealagain.
But the second the Uber turns the corner, I know.
It’s wrong.
The house—theirhouse—is a fucking suburban postcard now. There’s a silver minivan in the driveway with ababy on boardsticker like it belongs to some PTA president. A little tricycle lies half-flipped in the grass. A basketball hoop leans off the garage, like it’s seen one too many failed layups.
Then the door opens.
A woman steps out in yoga pants and a zip-up hoodie, baby on her hip, hair in a messy blonde bun that looksway toofunctionalfor someone living in what was supposed to be a drug dealer’s den. She waves at the Uber.At me.
My breath catches, and thenhecomes out.
A man. Baseball cap. Graphic tee. He’s holding a sippy cup and guiding a toddler down the steps.
I blink.
Hard.
What the actual fuck.
The Uber driver glances at me through the rearview. “This the place?”
I stare.
No leather jackets. No bikes. No metal doors or security cams. No neon skulls. Just flower pots. Lawn toys. Agoddamn basketball hoop.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, like it’ll explain anything. “Was I really that fucked up?”
The driver chuckles politely. “Sorry?”
“Take me back. Into the city. Back to the motel.”
He nods, turns the car around. But I barely feel it. Everything outside the window’s just noise now. Wind and trees and headlights. A low hum pressing in on me.
I actually fucking made all of it up. Holy fuck.
We getto the motel and I get out like I’m on autopilot, hands numb, legs wooden. But I don’t go to the room. Not yet. I just start walking. Toward the beach. Toward the only place that still makes sense.
The night air hits like a slap, but I keep going. Down the side street. Past the empty playground. Through the broken fence someone duct-taped months ago and never fixed.
The sand is cool and soft under my flip flops. The ocean glows faint in the distance, and the world is too quiet.
I walk until my legs give out. Until my lungs ache. Until the grief pulls me down like an undertow. Then, I drop to the sand and just stay there, fingers curled in the sand like maybe I’ll find answers buried under the surface.
But all I find is nothing.
No proof.
