Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
The headache woke me hours later, still throbbing. Every inch of my body ached as I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. I moved as if I’d shatter like glass at the slightest misstep and, shuffling into the bathroom, grabbed a bottle of headache meds from the medicine cabinet and downed them with gulps of water from the faucet, the cool liquid sweet on my still-raw throat.
I stripped my clothes, leaving them piled on the floor, and stepped into the shower. I didn’t even flinch at the first rush of icy water. Flinching took too much energy—and I knew from experience the hot came fast. One of the many good things about lodgings in the barracks: an endless, on-demand water heater that didn’t make you wait. I cranked up the temperature and let the shower wash away dust and dirt, soot from the explosion, sweat—all of it.
My stomach growled, and I tried to remember the last time I ate something. Maddox had grabbed food while we were out chasing leads, but I hadn’t been hungry, my throat too raw to think about swallowing. I was way past due. The thought of food wasn’t appetizing, but that was what protein shakes were for. I didn’t need a meal so much as nutrition.
I went through the motions—toweling off my hair, pulling on a thermal and cargo pants—eyeing the mound of clothes I’d peeled off and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just throw them in the trash. I wasn’t sure there was enough detergent in the world to get them clean again. Putting it aside as a problem for later, I headed downstairs to find the lights dimmed. In the kitchen, checking my phone, I realized it was after three in the morning. I glanced up to see Ryder, Maddox, and Shade’s doors all closed.
Miranda’s and Wren’s were both open because they were with Sylvie.
I grabbed a shaker cup, not wanting to use the blender and wake everyone up, and made myself a double-strength protein shake, dumping in a bunch of ice cubes. As soon as I had it mixed, the cold, thick liquid soothed my throat and filled my empty stomach. As I drank, I stared down at the screen of my phone, stuck.
What now?
I couldn’t call Sylvie, couldn’t risk waking her up. And even if I could, I didn’t know what I’d say. I love you back? I’m sorry I failed to capture the asshole trying to kill you? I’m sorry I pushed you into making a decision that almost got you killed?
I’m sorry I’m avoiding you.
I pushed those thoughts away and focused on the rage still simmering inside for the bomber.
I had no leads to chase, and even if I did, I was grounded—like I was a teenager who couldn’t be trusted to behave. Fuck that. I wasn’t close to back to normal, but with a few hours of sleep, my head had cleared somewhat. Enough that I knew I’d fucked up a lot of stuff—but I was alive, and Sylvie was alive. It wasn’t too late to fix what really mattered. I just had to figure out how.
My thumb hovered over the apps on my phone screen, and before I could think about it too much, I tapped the one for the podcast app. Evidence & Echoes was on the home screen. I’d clicked Follow the day I’d met Sylvie, but hadn’t gotten around to listening to an episode. The last week felt like a lifetime. It was hard to believe how annoyed I’d been about babysitting some podcaster. Amazing to think Sylvie had strolled into my life, her appearance so random and yet not random at all.
She’d changed everything.
I tapped the play icon and Sylvie’s voice hit my ears, so familiar, but with an extra layer of polish. This was her podcaster voice, and it drew me in.
“—though when Detective Henson spoke to the eyewitness, he ended up going back to his original evidence file. Eyewitnesses lie, sometimes even when they don’t mean to. But evidence doesn’t lie, and Detective Henson knew the truth was in that evidence file—”
I tapped the pause button. Evidence doesn’t lie.
God, I was an idiot. I hadn’t gotten it, not really. Not until now.
Sylvie, looking through the files she’d found at the data broker’s warehouse. Evidence told her the truth, but it should have been me. She shouldn’t have to go through files to learn about the team or Silas. I should have told her.
She wasn’t angry about Silas. She was angry that I hadn’t trusted her. That my lies about the case and my interest in Emily Shaw’s murder left her feeling like there was no one she could trust. Like, my feelings for her couldn’t be real. I’d thought I was keeping myself safe, and instead I’d taken her safety away.