Page 66 of Beautiful Scars

I reach across the table, stopping just short of touching her hand. "We can protect you."

"Yeah. I've heard that one before." Her voice cracks slightly. "Look how well that turned out."

Chapter Thirty-One

Zane

Iheaveanotherdustybox onto the growing pile in the living room, my muscles protesting after hours of hauling junk up from the basement. The safe house's musty underground has become my personal version of hell today. Who knew one basement could hold so much history?

A cloud of dust explodes as I drop the latest box, making me sneeze. "Shit." I itch my nose with the back of my hand, leaving a grimy streak across my skin. My white T-shirt is now more gray than white, and my suspenders are hanging loose at my hips.

The basement stairs creak under my boots as I head back down. The bare bulb swinging overhead casts weird shadows in the corners. Dozens more boxes sit stacked against the far wall, their cardboard sides bulging with who knows what.

I grab the top one, lighter than the others. The side splits as I lift it, spilling old papers across the concrete floor. "Perfect." My voice echoes in the empty space.

Kneeling down, I gather the scattered sheets. Most are yellowed invoices and receipts from years ago, but a few photos mixed in catch my eye. One shows a younger version of Levi's father standing in front of this house, arm around a woman who must be Levi's mom. They're both smiling, no hint of the darkness that would come later.

I shove the photos back in the box without looking at any more of them. The past needs to stay buried, especially right now with everything so fucked up between me and Levi.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Another message from Wolf about the warehouse viewing later. I ignore it like I've been ignoring Colt's texts about making peace with Levi. Some things can't be fixed with a few apologetic words.

The next box is heavier, packed with old ledgers and account books. The leather covers are cracked and faded, but the numbers inside might still mean something. I'll have to go through them later, see if any of the old business information is worth saving.

Sweat trickles down my back as I carry the box upstairs. The AC is working overtime against the September heat, but it's losing the battle. I drop the box with the others and pull my shirt off, using it to wipe my face before tossing it aside.

The final box feels different when I lift it. Metal clinks inside, and something that sounds like chains shifts. My gut tightens. This house has seen some ugly business over the years. Some things are better left undiscovered.

But I can't leave anything unchecked. Not when we're trying to make this place operational again. I set the box on an old workbench and pry open the top.

Chains, along with bundles of brittle, old zip ties, duct tape, and other restraints fill the bottom of the box. Standard equipment for our line of work, but these are old. Rusty in places. Covered in dark stains I don't want to think about too hard.

Under all that, I find a small leather case, engraved with the lettersA.R. Inside is a set of knives, well-maintained despite their age. The handles are worn smooth from use. I recognize the maker's mark—same guy who crafted my favorite blade.

My phone buzzes again. Wolf, getting impatient about the warehouse. I check the time and curse. Been down here longer than I meant to be.

I close the knife case and return it to the box. Everything goes upstairs. The sorting can wait until later.

Dusting my hands off on my pants, I head for the stairs. The are more piles of boxes in the living room, patiently waiting their turn. So much history in this house, so many secrets. And now we're adding our own to the mix.

I grab a clean shirt, set the alarms and climb into my car. I check my reflection in the rearview. Still covered in dust and cobwebs, but I don’t have time to clean up.

The air conditioner blasts cold air as I pull out of the driveway. My mind drifts to Sunny, wondering if she's working tonight. We've fallen into a comforting routine of late-night diner visits and phone calls after her shifts. She's still guarded, but sometimes I catch glimpses of who she must have been before everything went wrong.

I force those thoughts away. Got enough complications without adding more. The warehouse needs checking, security systems need a final upgrade, and somewhere in all those boxes might be information we can use.

I pull up to the warehouse, spotting Wolf's black SUV already parked out front. He's leaning against the hood, cigarette dangling from his lips. His dark clothes blend into the shadows of the building, making him look more like his namesake than usual.

"Took your sweet time," Wolf drawls as I step out of my truck. He eyes my dusty appearance. "What happened to you?"

"Been clearing out the basement. Place is a damn museum." I stretch, my back cracking from all the heavy lifting. "Show me what we're working with here."

Wolf flicks his cigarette away and pulls out a ring of keys. "You're gonna love this place. Previous owners went bankrupt, but they left everything in good condition."

The metal door groans as he pushes it open. Stale air hits my face as we step inside. Wolf flips some switches, and industrial lights flicker to life overhead, revealing the massive space.

"Holy shit." I whistle, my voice echoing. The warehouse stretches far back, with high ceilings and multiple loading bays. "How many square feet?"

"Twenty thousand." Wolf's boots echo on the concrete as he walks ahead. "Got office space upstairs, security system already wired in—needs upgrading but nothing we can't handle. Loading docks can handle four trucks at once."

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