Page 57 of Found by the Pack
Warmth spreads in my chest anyway, a low thrum under my ribs. I push it down hard.
Boone doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how fractured I am, how stripped down and hollow I feel on the worst days. If he did, if he knew the whole of it, he wouldn’t be looking at me with anything except maybe pity.
“You have everything ready so I can drop you off?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, setting my coffee aside. “Just need to grab my supplies.”
Inside, I change—old jeans, paint-spattered hoodie, sturdy sneakers. I keep it brisk, efficient. The less Boone’s left to stand around outside, the less time there is for me to think about his expression when he looked at me.
We load the jars and canvas rolls into his car. He takes the heavier boxes without asking, stacking them carefully so nothing shifts.
Then I’m sliding into the passenger seat, buckling up, and suddenly I’m in his space—close enough to catch the faint scent of his soap under the coffee and leather.
He starts the engine, pulling away from the curb. I glance at him and say, “You’re being weirdly quiet.”
His fingers tighten just a little on the steering wheel.
A beat of silence, and the thought worms its way in before I can stop it:Did he see? Is it because of the bruises the other day? Is that what this is?
I stare out the window, my jaw tight. The memory of that exam with him—how exposed I’d felt—slides cold under my skin.
Then Boone exhales and says, “I told the other guys.”
The words land like a blow. My head snaps toward him. “You… what?”
His eyes flick to me, then back to the road. “I told them what I saw. I shouldn’t have?—”
“What exactly did you tell them?”
He watches me like he’s scared I’ll jump out of this truck and run, and maybe I should.
“That you were in danger and I had a feeling you were being abused. Gabe is in the fire department. He’s close to some of the police and I thought it would be a lot easier if we knew what was going on so we could have a handle on it. I know I have no right?—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intend. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
“I just…” He hesitates, jaw clenching. “I want to understand what exactly happened to you.”
“I am not your fucking responsibility, Boone.”
“Sadie…”
The air in the car feels smaller, thicker. “You want to understand?” My laugh is short, humorless. “Congratulations. You just made sure I’m never telling you another damn thing.”
His head turns sharply toward me, but I don’t look at him. My arms cross over my chest.
“This is why,” I say, quieter now. “This is why I don’t tell people. Because it always comes back to bite me in the ass.”
The rest of the drive is silent except for the low hum of the engine. My coffee sits cooling in the cup holder, untouched.
When he pulls up to Baxter’s, I unbuckle without looking at him. My supplies shift as I grab them from the back, the sound of canvas rolls and jars rattling filling the gap where some scrap of conversation should be.
“Sadie—” he starts.
But I’m already out on the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride.” My voice is polite, flat, the kind of tone you use with someone you know you can’t trust anymore.
I don’t wait for whatever he might say next.
Inside my chest, something is buzzing—anger, hurt, the sharp edge of betrayal. I shove it down as I carry my supplies toward the wall, but it’s there, steady and sour.
