Candace
I’mcurledintothefar end of the couch, knees tucked under me, surrounded by the soft thrum of voices and the quiet presence of the girls. Frankie’s scribbling in her notebook, Ruby’s painting her nails with a color she claims is called Venomous Vixen, and Darla is flipping through an old tabloid, treating it as though it’s the gospel. The air smells of coffee, something sweet baking in the kitchen, and the faintest hint of antiseptic drifting up from the basement.
It’s the kind of setting that should be calming. Should feel safe. But my skin feels too tight. Like I don’t belong in this moment of peace or I’m waiting for something to shatter.
Sloane’s still down there with Malachi. Still with Donovan. The name curdles in my stomach. I press my palms harder into the cushions, grounding myself in the scratch of the fabric and the distant hum of voices I can’t quite make out. Somewhere belowthis floor, pain is being answered. Part of me wants to look away, the other part wants to listen.
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and exhale slowly, but it doesn’t do much. The pounding in my skull isn’t from exhaustion. It’s from pressure; internal, relentless, and laced with the fear I keep trying to swallow.
I should be down there with him. But I’m not. Because if I see the truth in his eyes, the truth about her, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
“Girl, you good?” Ruby asks, pausing mid-stroke to look at me.
“Just tired,” I lie, not very convincingly. The words fall flat.
Ruby disappears without a word, no dramatic flair, no snarky one-liner. Just gets up and leaves the room on a mission. I watch her go, confused but too emotionally drained to ask. A few minutes later, she’s back with my guitar in hand. My breath hitches. Just seeing it, worn wood, dulled strings, makes my chest tighten, it feels like something inside me is pulled too far.
She doesn’t say anything. Just sets it gently beside me, placing it with care, then returns to her spot as though she didn’t just unravel me with a single gesture. The strings vibrate faintly as they settle. I stare at it, hands frozen. It feels like a challenge. A whisper. A truth I haven’t been ready to hold.
I pick it up. The weight is familiar. Comforting. My fingers find the strings, strumming absently, no melody, just muscle memory and the desperate need to feel something steady under my hands. The wood is cool against my skin. My thumb taps a soft rhythm—1-2-3-4—the same pattern I used to play to keep from falling apart. I don’t look at anyone. If I do, I’ll splinter.
Footsteps echo near the door, and we all look up as Maggie walks in, holding a large brown paper bag in one hand. James follows, hobbling on crutches, clearly irritated about the whole situation. His jaw is clenched, his crutches loud against thehardwood, and I can already hear the grumbling forming behind his scowl.
“I’m fine,” he mutters before anyone can ask. “Just a broken ankle. No big deal. Damn thing’s gonna keep me off my bike for weeks, though.”
Ruby gasps, reacting as though he’s announced the death of a beloved pet. “Blasphemy.”
James gives her a look that dares her to say another word. She just grins and holds up her hands in surrender.
Nash walks in behind them with his usual slow prowl, nodding once toward Ruby’s sarcasm. “Guess we’ll have to start knitting circles without him,” he deadpans. She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it, something unspoken. I clock it. So does he. Neither of them flinches.
Maggie sets the bag on the coffee table and starts unpacking containers. “Food. Because everyone’s running on fumes and attitude.”
The scent hits me. Fried chicken, cornbread, and something spicy, tangy, and warm. My stomach growls before I can stop it. Guess I hadn’t realized how long it’d been since I ate. The warmth wraps around me, pulling at a memory I’m scared to trust. For a second, I almost feel okay. Almost.
Maggie glances over and tilts her head. “You not downstairs with Malachi?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “Needed a break.” She doesn’t push. Just nods and starts passing out plates. But I catch James watching me, quiet and steady. His gaze lands heavy, reading the storm sitting just beneath my ribs. He’s seen it before.
But the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. Because while I sit here surrounded by the warmth of women who’ve become more than just acquaintances. They’re my friends, no, my family. I can’t stop thinking about what Nash and Kyle said when they came back. Nothing. No leads. No sign of her.
Alice Brighton disappeared again, vanishing the way smoke slips through fingers. My mother. The woman who walked away. She was right there. In this town. And somehow, I still couldn’t reach her. My knuckles tighten around the neck of the guitar. The strings whine under the pressure. I don’t know if I want to scream or vanish. But I can’t. Not yet.
Because Malachi’s down there. Digging for answers. When he comes back, I need to be ready to hear whatever he found out. Even if it breaks me all over again. Even if the last thread of denial I’ve been clinging to snaps.
The basement door opens. Every breath in the room stills. We all feel it, whatever just shifted below our feet. Sloane is the first up the stairs, her scrub top streaked with blood, hair pulled back in a messy knot. She doesn’t say a word, just makes a beeline for the bathroom. Knox follows a second later, his jaw clenched and eyes scanning the room with full alertness.
Then Malachi comes into view, covered in blood splatter, his shirt sticking to his chest, and something carved into the lines of his face that makes my heart stop. My lungs seize. His eyes lock with mine, and the entire world tilts. Everything inside me stills, then starts to shake.
He doesn’t speak right away, just meets my eyes across the room. Something in me settles and shatters all at once. I press the heel of my palm to my thigh, grounding myself before I break again. His gaze is a storm and a tether all in one.
Sloane returns a few minutes later in fresh clothes, hair damp, and sits with the hunger of someone who hasn’t eaten in days. She reaches for a plate and digs in without ceremony.
One by one, the others drift closer, Nash. East. Kyle. Even a couple of the prospects hover at the edges, tension clinging to all of them, second skin worn thin.
The air is thick with anticipation. No one speaks. No one breathes too loud. We’re all waiting for the drop.
Malachi stands behind the couch, arms crossed, still soaked in the aftermath of what he left downstairs. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet but steady. “Donovan is dead, but he talked, and now we know enough.” The room stills, holding its breath.
