Chapter 8 Morgan
Morgan
Sleep didn’t come.
I curled on the narrow safehouse couch with a scratchy blanket, staring at the ceiling while the farmhouse creaked around me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ruby’s phone glowing on the pavement, her name flashing on my screen. And then nothing.
So I did what I always did when the dark was too heavy. I pulled out my little recorder.
It was half instinct, half therapy. The cool plastic fit against my palm like an old friend, the red light winking in the shadows. I slipped in my earbuds, pressing one deep so I could pretend the words were only for me.
“Girl taken. White van. A sister chasing ghosts,” I whispered into it. “Three shipments, one warehouse. Numbers don’t lie, but men do. Which means the truth is buried in paper.”
I knew I wasn’t being quiet enough. My voice carried. It always did. But letting the words out kept me steady, kept me from drowning in fear.
The floor creaked. I flinched, yanking the recorder close. River leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint grin on his face.
“You always narrate your life, or just when assassins are after you?” he asked.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Relax,” he said, stepping inside. “Better than snoring. At least your mumbling makes sense.”
I tucked the recorder under the blanket, suddenly shy. “It helps me think. Makes it… less scary.”
For a moment, River’s smile softened. “Don’t lose that. Scary keeps you sharp. Talking keeps you sane. Between the two, you’ll survive.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Not simple,” he said. “Just true.”
He left me then, quiet as he came, but his words lingered. Maybe I wasn’t just some anxious writer with too many quirks. Maybe this thing I couldn’t stop doing — mumbling plots, recording fragments — was part of how I’d fight back.
I sat up straighter, grabbed the stack of papers Damian had left on the table, and spread them out across my lap. Shipping manifests. Registries. Long lists of numbers that blurred if I stared too long.
But when I whispered through them, narrating like I was drafting a scene, something shifted.
“Shipment A, June fourth. Shipment B, July nineteenth. Both rerouted through the same hub. Not sloppy, not coincidence. A trail disguised as routine.”
The pattern glimmered.
I snapped the recorder off and grabbed my pen, circling the dates, my heart racing. Ruby’s trail wasn’t cold yet.
And for the first time since that phone call, I felt like maybe — just maybe — I could find her.