Page 172 of The Darkest Chase

I’m about to rugpull every last hope she ever had from under her.

All so I can have my justice.

I’ve known.

I’ve always known.

Still, as long as it wasn’t concrete, as long as it was this slow game of cat and mouse, I could pretend this day wouldn’t come.

But it’s here like a shooting star.

Come morning, this place might be swarming with Feds, if I make the right phone calls.

Then the money Talia needs to save Gerald Grey goes up in smoke as everything Xavier owns becomes either a seized federal asset or hot evidence.

I stare into her smile, missing my soul.

“Cash your check fast. Today, Talia.”

It’s like blotting out the sun.

Her lips go slack with confusion. Her eyes darken with worry, and she draws the papers with the check tucked inside close, as if she’s worried someone might snatch them away.

“Why?”

“Because if—when—I move on Xavier, his assets will end up frozen and that check won’t be worth the paper it’s written on.”

I stand, turning my back on her and pacing to my laptop.

I can’t stand the stricken look on her face.

I also can’t help pausing, glancing back, while Rolf dances around on his front paws between us, his confusion clear. He’s always been sensitive to changes in the air, and the tension feels thick enough to choke me.

“I’ll make sure you’re labeled as an innocent bystander so the funds might not be seized when they chase the paper trail,” I tell her. “I just can’t guarantee anything. Also, I hope that check is enough. Go home. Get your affairs in order. I don’t know how fast this is all going to go down.”

I look away again, waiting for her to break the silence.

She’s just standing there, so loud I can hear her.

A person makes noises that come with being alive. Quiet is never quiet as long as someone’s breathing.

Everyone has their own special quiet made of restless motions and breathing rhythm, their pattern of sighs or subvocal murmurs, the way their clothing whispers with movement.

I hadn’t realized I’d learned Talia’s quiet by heart.

Not until it changes in the smallest ways.

Because her hurt and confusion change how she moves.

“Why, Micah? Why are you talking like this?” she asks. “Like… like we’re strangers.”

That’s all we ever should’ve been.

I can’t answer that, though.

So all I say is, “I said go, Talia.”

Fuck, I’m itching for a cold shaker cup in my hand, biting my skin with the distraction of mixing a drink. My father turned to drinking to block out the world. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, even if for me it’s the ritual rather than the booze clouding my mind.

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