Page 87 of Jayson
Silence stretches between us—raw, ugly, honest.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and rest my palm at the nape of her neck, grounding her the only way I know how. Inside, the fear’s still there, clawing at my ribs. Fear of losing her. Fear she’ll chase the next shadow before I can drag it into the light.
She blinks, and I catch the shimmer in her eyes—grief clashing with something sharper, more volatile. Rage.
Her fingers unclench, and she holds something small between us.
A bracelet.
Pink cords braided with silver, the charm catching the slant of light coming through the curtains. It flickers against the walls like it’s trying to be seen—trying to be remembered.
Her voice is low, but I don’t miss the tension thrumming through it.
“I found this in the cellar,” she says. “It’s Riley’s. We made them together. Matching bracelets.”
She swallows hard, knuckles tightening around the delicate thing like it might vanish.
“She was wearing it the night she disappeared.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see it—what’s left of the little girl who thought home meant safety.
“Everything he told me about being protected… it was a lie. A lie my father sold me so I wouldn’t see what he really was.”
And just like that, I understand—she’s not just grieving. She’s waking up to the full weight of betrayal. And it's shattering her.
A muscle jumps in my jaw. Her eyes search mine. Whatever she finds softens something deep. She shivers, shaky.
The fight leaves her all at once. Her shoulders collapse,breath catching in her throat—and then she’s pulling me down by the collar, grounding herself in the only thing solid in the moment.
Me.
Her mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not soft or careful. It’s salt and desperation and everything she can’t bring herself to say.Don’t let go.
I answer with a hand on her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, the other anchoring us against the sofa. I don’t take it further. I don’t push. I just hold on, matching the storm without feeding it. Fierce, but steady.
When she finally pulls back, our foreheads rest together. Her breath fans across my lips, shaky and warm.
“I wasn’t running from you,” she whispers. Her voice is rough with emotional exhaustion. And somehow, she already knows what I was afraid of—the second I realized she’d slipped away from Nina and Lionel.
“Good,” I murmur. “Because you wouldn’t get far.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile, barely there, but enough.
She tucks the bracelet into her hoodie pocket—tight, like it might be stolen again. Then she nods. Just once. “Can we go?”
I rise and help her up, keeping a hand on her back until I’m sure her knees will hold. Together, we move through the house one last time—my eyes sweeping every room, hers trailing after memories. She locks the cellar. I make sure the back door latches tight. No alarms went off, no signs of entry. But someone was here. I believe her.
And whoever it was, he’s gone now.
Outside, the sun is too bright. Too ordinary. It casts long lines of gold across the manicured lawn, the trimmed hedges, the familiar sidewalk. A perfect neighborhood pretending everything’s fine.
We walk side by side to the Aston parked discreetly up thestreet, the midday sun making the air shimmer above the blacktop. She hesitates by the car, glancing back over her shoulder, then slides into the passenger seat without protest. I round to the driver’s side, get in, and start the engine.
We ease away from the curb, tires whispering over the road. She keeps her eyes on the rearview mirror for a long time, watching the house shrink behind us.
Only when it disappears around the next corner does she let out a long, shaky breath.
