Page 53 of Logan
She never would’ve gone there without a reason.
She never would’ve gone radio silent.
Not called. Turned her phone off.
Not Mac.
Not after him.
I remember the way her voice trembled the first time she told me about Anthony. The words came slow, like dragging them up from the bottom of a well she’d buried deep.
“He was my boss. He acted like he wanted to mentor me… but it was control. All control. The day I quit, he cornered me in one of the hotel rooms. Locked the door. If I hadn’t gotten away, I don’t know what—”
She never finished. She didn’t have to.
I remember the way she looked afterward, like she hated needing anyone. Like every kind thing I said was a threat she didn’t know how to survive.
“You don’t need to fix me, Logan.”
“I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to stand with you.”
And she finally let me.
Until this morning.
Until she kissed me like it might be the last time and said, “I have to do this on my own.”
Now she’s gone dark. And I’ve got one name circling my head like a vulture that’s already tasted blood.
Anthony Watson.
The bastard who did this to her.
What if he found her again?
I open the throttle, pushing the speed past safe, past smart. Wind screams past me, slicing through my jacket, biting at my skin, a cold burn that cuts straight through to bone.
She should’ve called.
She always calls.
The exit for the warehouse district comes up fast. I almost miss it, yanking the handlebars hard enough to make the tires skid. The back end fishtails, and for a split second, I’m inches from the guardrail. Horns blare behind me, a chorus of pissed-off drivers.
My heart’s pounding so hard I can taste copper in the back of my throat.
I don’t care.
I’d crash a thousand times if it got me to her one second faster.
I tear through the turnoff, weaving past rusted chain-link fences and stretches of cracked pavement littered with broken glass. Dom’s coordinates are fresh in my head. Third building from the end. Looks like it will eventually be polished into something nice, but right now it’s a skeleton, scaffolding, tarps flapping, shadows in every corner.
There.
I see it.
Mac’s car.
Parked. Alone.
