Page 76 of The Vagabond

The air is cold—knife-edged and creeping—and there’s something about this moment that feels off-script. Like we’ve left behind the version of Zack I used to know and stepped into something uncharted. Something predatory.

So I don’t push. Not until I’ve figured out exactly what kind of monster I’m dealing with. Because maybe he’s just a man playing a part. Or maybe he’s the kind that smiles while he’s deciding how to hurt you. And until I know for sure, I won’t give him a reason to hurt me. No sudden moves. Just enough polite tension to keep things from snapping.

I need a better hand to play. I need backup.Saxon.I reach for anything other than the growing certainty that I’ve wandered into a cage and handed the key to the wrong person. Saxon was right all along; I wasn’t made for this cruel world.

I let my smile sit on my lips like a disguise. Neutral. Fake. And I pray he doesn’t hear the thud of my heartbeat giving me away as he falls into step beside me.

The night is cool, the scent of ground coffee beans still clinging to my clothes. Zack walks too close. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine when I try to keep a respectable distance between us. I can smell his cologne—expensive, sharp, with an undercurrent I hadn’t noticed before. Something dark that lingers, impossible to hide, even under layers of fabric.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, casually. But his tone is off. Light, but weighted. Like a piano wire stretched too tight, about to snap.

“Been busy,” I mumble.

He hums, not buying it. “Avoiding me.”

I don’t answer. I don’t look at him. I keep walking. The silence thickens. It drapes over us like smoke, suffocating and waiting to catch fire.

“You ever going to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks, sighing in resignation. “I thought we were getting along pretty well.”

That nearly breaks me. Getting along? He was going to drug me. Take advantage of me like so many others before him. And now he’s standing here, talking like we were on the cusp of love instead of fucking betrayal.

“Not tonight,” I say quietly. “I’m tired.”

He laughs, one sharp breath of disbelief. “Tired.”

We reach my building. I pause at the foot of the stairs, praying he takes the hint.

“I should get some sleep.”

He lingers. Watches me. There’s something calculating in his eyes—like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying, or if I’m just weak enough to fold.

“Of course,” he says finally. “Sleep well, Max.”

He turns, pulling out his phone. But something about the way his thumb flicks across the screen makes my instincts scream. He lifts the device to his ear, murmurs something I can’t hear, and takes a few steps away.

That’s when I hear the shuffle of shoes behind me. I turn sharply. Two men in dark suits stand on the stoop of my building. Eyes sharp. Clean-shaven in that way that practically screams Federal Agent.

“Maxine Andrade?” the taller one asks.

I stiffen. My fingers wrap around my keys like a makeshift weapon.

“Who’s asking?”

The shorter one lifts a badge. “FBI. We’d like a word.”

My blood goes cold. My breath hitches. I glance back, and see Zack melting into the shadows as he walks away.

“About?” I ask tightly.

“We’d prefer to have this conversation inside.”

“Do you have a warrant?” They exchange curious glances. “You can’t enter my home unless you have a warrant.”

That’s when Zack returns—reappearing beside me like a bad omen. He eyes the men suspiciously, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“Maxine, everything okay?” he asks.

The badge is flashed again, more for show than anything else. “Private matter.”

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