Page 57 of Welded Defender
“She’s not there.” Nova shakes her head, eyes wide and glassy with panic. “The apartment’s empty. Like, completely empty.”
I freeze, blood rushing in my ears. The wrench in my hand suddenly weighs as much as an engine block, the cold metal burning against my palm. “Empty how?”
“Like—empty. No clothes on the chair. Her books, makeup… all gone.”
Wes leans out from the bay, a black smear across his left cheek. “What do you mean gone?”
Becket’s wrench clatters against the toolbox. His shoulders square beneath his coveralls.
Metal bites into my palm as the wrench slips from my grip. My boots leave wet prints across the concrete floor as I push past Nova. Outside, February wind slices through my thin shirt. Tire tracks cut fresh paths through gray slush. The corner spot—her spot—sits empty except for a puddle reflecting the sky.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a piston.
“She didn’t—” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “She wouldn’t just?—”
“She did.” Becket’s voice cuts through the wind. His calloused finger points to the vacant space. “Her car’s gone.”
My feet move before my brain catches up. The metal stairs ring under my boots. The door flies back, wood cracking against drywall.
The silence hits first. No music. No shower running. No pages turning.
Her flannel blanket is missing from the couch. So are her books, and that silly cat figurine that had been on the windowsill. A single mug sits upside down on a dish towel, still damp. The closet door hangs open—empty metal hangers clicking against each other in the draft.
“No.” The word tears something loose inside me.
I drop to my knees and check under the bed. Nothing but dust. The bathroom cabinet swings open to reveal naked shelves. No toothbrush. No lavender shampoo.
A white rectangle on the nightstand catches my eye. My name in her looping script.
The mattress sinks beneath me. The paper trembles between my fingers, thin as a fallen leaf.
Nova’s footsteps echo on the stairs. “Did you find anything?”
My throat closes. The paper unfolds, revealing three lines of blue ink.
Landon,
Thank you for everything. Please don’t come after me. This is safer—for you. For all of you.
—M
Something collapses behind my sternum. My knuckles whiten around the paper, creasing her handwriting into sharp angles. The word “safer” blurs before my eyes. I taste copper—I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it.
The floorboard by the door whines. Becket’s shadow stretches across the bare mattress. His gaze flicks from the note to the empty closet, then to the naked bathroom doorway beyond. The muscle in his jaw jumps once, twice.
“She’s gone,” I manage, the words scraping my throat raw.
“Yeah.” His voice drops to gravel. “She is.”
Dust motes hang suspended in the air between us, motionless.
I push off the bed. The frame protests with a metallic groan. My fingers dig into my scalp, pulling until my roots sting. Heat spreads beneath my ribs, crawls up my neck, burns behind my eyes. My boot connects with the nightstand before I realize I’ve kicked it.
My truck keys jingle in my pocket when I reach for them. Twenty minutes. That’s all I’d need to catch the highway, scan every rest stop between here and the state line.
My thumb traces the indentation her pen left on the paper: Please don’t come after me. The words might as well be carved into my palm. Into my chest. Into bone.
My throat works around words I can’t say. Becket’s steady presence is the only thing keeping me from breaking the nightstand in half.
