Page 100 of Carrick
I’d seen it in war zones. In brothers-in-arms who came back changed. In the mirror. In the hollow places of people who had lost too much and still had more to lose. That’s what she looked like. Not weak. Not fragile. Just fading. And I wasn’t going to let her. Not when she still had fight in her jaw and fire buried in her bones. Not when there was still a flicker of hope inside her, even if it was barely breathing. Because if I failed her now—if I stood still while she unraveled—it wouldn’t be the Dom Krovi that broke her. It would be us. And I’d never forgive myself for that.
We hit her neighborhood just after 12:40.
It was quiet, but not the kind you hope for. Not the stillness of a neighborhood asleep, safe in its routines. This quiet hummed wrong beneath the skin. No porch lights. No flicker of televisions behind curtains. No barking dogs. No distant sirens. Just silence. Heavy. Artificial. Like someone had pressed mute on the whole street and waited for the world to notice.
I eased the bike slower, scanning the shadows between buildings—rooftops, doorways, the gaps that bred trouble. My gut was already tightening, that sixth sense sparking like a live wire. Too many porches sat dark. Too many windows sealed without a flicker of light. Blinds pulled tight like a neighborhood that didn’t want to be seen. It was the kind of silence that made the back of my neck prickle.
Bellamy didn’t speak until we cleared the block. “There,” she whispered, pointing to a narrow alley tucked between a chain-link fence and a brick retaining wall. “We can cut through. Second floor, end unit. Facing the alley.”
I killed the engine a block early and let the bike coast to the curb, guiding it into a collapsed section of fence half-swallowed by ivy. Urban camouflage. The kind of detail you only noticed if you were looking for it. She dismounted quietly, eyes sweeping the dark, her breath tight as we started walking. Neither of us spoke. Every footstep sounded too loud.
She stayed close, shoulder brushing mine with every movement. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need to. She knew this ground better than I did, but she moved like a ghost—like the walls of her old life were already pressing in from every side. And the moment we turned into the alley, I heard it in her breath.
The hitch. The break. The beginning of the unravel.
“This is it,” she murmured.
I could feel it—her dread swelling beneath her skin, radiating off her like heat. The closer we got, the more tightly wound she became.
Then she stopped dead in her tracks.
“There,” she said, her voice breaking around the word. “That window—it’s open.”
I followed her gaze to the second floor, far-left unit. The bedroom window was cracked just enough to catch the breeze—only a few inches, but enough to stir the pale curtain inside, which fluttered like a warning. Bellamy’s breath hitched. “I never leave it open.”
She wasn’t the kind of woman who missed details. She triple-checked locks, kept knives in strategic drawers, lived like safety had to be earned. If she said that window should’ve been closed, then something was wrong.
I reached for my weapon immediately. “Stay behind me,” I said, low and steady. But she was already moving, slippingpast me toward the rear entrance like instinct had taken the wheel. The back door stood ajar; not kicked in, but the lock was snapped and the frame splintered. Forced entry, fast and sloppy. No finesse, no subtlety. This wasn’t a pro job. It was desperation.
I entered first, gun raised, eyes sweeping the room—and everything stopped.
The apartment was gutted. Not just tossed, but torn apart. Drawers emptied and dumped in piles. Couch cushions slashed, cabinet doors dangling on broken hinges. The fridge hung open, leaking cold like someone had raided it for anything worth keeping or selling. The place reeked of dust, old paper, and the sharp, metallic scent of broken things.
Bellamy froze behind me. She didn’t speak. Didn’t gasp. Just stood in the doorway, her eyes scanning the wreckage like it physically hurt to look at. Her mouth parted, one hand twitching like she wanted to reach for something—anything—that still belonged to her. But there was nothing. Only scattered remnants of a life shredded and left behind.
She didn’t move, but I felt it—the exact second something inside her gave out. Silent. Invisible. But seismic. A tremble passed through her arm where it touched mine, and I knew. If there was still anything left of Bellamy’s past in this place, it wouldn’t survive what came next.
Then—upstairs. A heavy footfall. A muffled curse.
I raised my weapon and took the stairs two at a time, boots landing light and controlled. Bellamy followed close, her breaths sharp and shallow, her hand brushing the small of my back like she couldn’t bear to lose contact—as if letting me get too far ahead might cost her something she couldn’t afford to lose.
The hallway was worse. Not ransacked—destroyed. Deliberate. Furious. A bookshelf had been ripped clean from the wall, its shelves splintered, pages torn and scattered across thefloor like snowdrifts. Shoes dumped, broken glass crunching under my boot. And then I saw it: a photo, face-down, frame cracked. The one from her file. Bellamy as a kid, maybe eight, sitting on a sun-bleached porch next to a scrawny boy with shaggy hair and a crooked grin. Rayden. Their knees scraped, their smiles huge. Now it lay stepped on, smudged, warped—violated. This wasn’t just chaos. It was personal. It was a fucking massacre.
Light spilled from the bedroom at the end of the hall—flickering, warm, casting long shadows across the warped floorboards like the house itself was bleeding memory. I lifted my weapon, and Bellamy fell into step behind me, quiet as breath, moving like death itself. She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed right on me, steady and sharp.
I entered the doorway first—and froze.
In the center of the room, a man was elbow-deep in the gutted remains of her dresser. Drawers yanked out and tossed aside. Clothes everywhere. A jewelry box overturned, cheap earrings and tangled chains spilling across the floor like he’d tried to shake the truth loose from metal and silk. A few crumpled bills lay near his feet. His hands were trembling.
I stepped forward and raised my weapon.
“Don’t fucking move.”
He froze, shoulders hunched, still crouched over the drawer. Then he turned—slowly, like he was expecting to get shot between the eyes.
And Bellamy’s breath came out of her like she’d been punched in the ribs. “Rayden?”
The man blinked, eyes wild, confused. “Bell—” he said, voice rasping with disbelief. “What the hell—what are you doing here?”
