12. Shelby
12
SHELBY
I don’t understand what’s happening.
One minute, I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps as I try to process the weight of what I’ve done. The next, Mason is on the phone, his voice calm, clipped, issuing commands to men I don’t know—people who have the power to fix this , whatever the hell that means.
I barely hear what he says. My pulse is still thundering in my ears. The copper scent of blood hangs thick in the air, burning the back of my throat. Every few seconds, my eyes flicker back to David’s lifeless body sprawled across my living room floor, his head at an unnatural angle, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s still mid-sentence.
It feels like he’s still watching me.
The realization turns my stomach, nausea threatening to choke me. I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into my skin as if I can somehow hold myself together.
Then the headlights appear.
Two black SUVs glide down my street, smooth and deliberate, their engines barely making a sound. The doors open simultaneously, and two men step out, moving up my driveway with quiet purpose.
They aren’t like Mason.
Mason is sharp, controlled, his intensity crackling just beneath the surface like a live wire. These men? They move like wolves in the stillness of the night, silent and sure-footed, but there’s something off about them.
They carry two black doctor’s bags, like they just walked out of an emergency room instead of pulling up to a crime scene.
Despite the way they move, they are as unassuming as two men could possibly be.
Short. Rotund. Bespectacled.
One has thick, sausage-like fingers, the kind you’d expect to belong to a butcher or a man who kneads dough for a living. The other has a perpetually hunched posture, as if he’s been carrying the weight of too many secrets on his back.
They look like they could be professors. Maybe pharmacists. Maybe two kindly grandfathers out for a midnight stroll.
But they aren’t.
And something about their entire demeanor makes my skin crawl.
Mason doesn’t even blink at their arrival. He steps aside, barely acknowledging them as they walk through the open door and immediately assess the situation.
They don’t flinch at the sight of David’s body.
They don’t need to.
They’ve seen death before. Probably more times than I want to imagine.
One of them crouches beside David’s corpse, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with practiced ease, while the other begins unpacking a collection of tools from his bag.
Not just cleaning supplies.
Scalpels. Bone saws. Plastic tarps.
I feel my stomach turn.
“We should leave the house for a while,” Mason says, his voice calm, casual—like he’s asking me if I want to step outside for a cigarette.
My head snaps toward him, eyes wide.
“Why?”
It’s a stupid question.
I already know why.
I just need to hear him say it.
His gaze flickers to me, then down to David’s body, and despite the sheer madness of the situation, I can’t help the way my eyes follow his.
David is still lying there, frozen in death, a dark pool of blood seeping from the wound in his forehead, staining the carpet beneath him.
His presence is wrong. All of this is wrong.
Mason’s jaw tightens. He steps closer, his voice dropping just low enough that only I can hear him.
“Because you don’t need to see this.”
There’s something in his tone—something final.
My stomach knots.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. What happens if I stay? What happens if I watch?
The answer is obvious.
If I stay, I will see something I can’t unsee.
Something worse than murder.
Mason must see the hesitation in my eyes because he exhales slowly, stepping closer, lowering his voice further.
“You need to trust me, Shelby. Let’s go.”
Trust.
A funny word, considering the circumstances.
I glance back at the men who are already setting up, working quickly, methodically. I hear the sound of a tarp unfurling, the quiet click of a blade being flicked open.
I can’t be here for this.
I can’t watch them erase what I did.
I force my feet to move. One step. Then another. Mason follows close behind as we step out onto the porch, the cold night air hitting my skin like a slap.
I can still smell blood.
I wrap my arms around myself again, but it does nothing to shake the hollow, sinking feeling in my chest.
A dead man is in my living room.
And by the time I come back…
He’ll be gone.
Like he was never even here.
Like none of this ever happened.
We drive through the quiet streets surrounding my home, then merge onto the freeway. The hum of the tires against the asphalt is the only sound between us.
I stare out the window, my mind numb, my body still running on the fading edge of adrenaline. I should be asking more questions, should be trying to make sense of the fact that a team is currently scrubbing every trace of David’s death from my house—but I can’t bring myself to form the words.
We drive for what seems like forever, but it’s only about forty minutes before Mason pulls up to a large wrought iron gate. With the click of a button on his dashboard, the gate slides back, opening into darkness.
I turn to face him, taking in his profile as he steers the car up a winding driveway, the soft glow of the headlights illuminating a house ahead. It’s not the looming mansion I was expecting. Instead, it’s a modest ranch-style home—clean lines, warm lighting spilling from the windows.
It’s unexpected.
He’s unexpected.
I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where are we?”
Mason cuts the engine, his fingers flexing around the wheel before he glances at me. “My place.”
My stomach tightens. I shouldn’t be here.
He must see it on my face because he exhales, shaking his head. “It’s just for a few hours, Shelby. You need to clean up. Get your head straight. Then I’ll take you home.”
Home.
The word scrapes through me, jagged and meaningless. The place I lived is just an empty shell now, wiped clean, stripped of the proof that I ever fought for my own life inside those walls.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Mason gets out first, rounding the car to open my door. I step out, wrapping my arms around myself as the cool night air brushes against my skin. He leads me toward the side of the house, past the main entrance, until a smaller structure comes into view.
A pool house.
It’s small, but beautiful. The light from inside spills through the large windows, highlighting sleek wood floors and carefully curated furniture that looks more like a high-end vacation rental than a guest space.
Mason pushes the door open, flipping on the overhead lights. “You can shower here. There are towels in the cabinet, and I’ll grab you something to change into.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”
His brows pull together like the idea is absurd. “Shelby, you just killed a man. You can take a shower.”
Right.
I nod, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind me, and for the first time in what feels like hours, I’m alone.
I let out a breath and turn in slow circles, taking in the space. It’s spotless. Minimalistic but expensive. A huge sectional takes up most of the living room, a mounted TV above the fireplace, a fully stocked kitchenette to the side.
But what really draws me in is the bathroom.
The shower is glass-enclosed, massive, with rainfall fixtures and walls lined with soft gray stone. When I turn the knob, hot water immediately floods the space, steam curling against my skin.
I don’t even bother undressing properly. I peel my ruined dress off like a second skin, stepping beneath the spray, letting the water scorch away the night.
David’s blood drains off me.
The feel of his hands on me? That will take longer.
When I shut the water off, I reach for a fluffy white towel from the stack on the counter, drying myself off before I pull the towel tight around my body and emerge from the bathroom and into the bedroom. A neatly folded pile of clothes waits for me at the end of the bed—Mason’s clothes.
I press my lips together as I slip into the oversized sweatpants and T-shirt. Even with my ample curves, I’m swimming in the soft, worn fabric that smells faintly of him. I roll the waistband a few times to keep them from sliding off before tying the drawstring tight.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My damp hair clings to my face, my eyes shadowed, hollowed out by exhaustion. I look like a ghost of myself—someone I used to be but don’t quite recognize anymore.
It’s the first time in years I’ve felt free from David’s reach, but even in death, he lingers. His presence is woven into my skin, his shadow stretching long behind me, clinging like a curse that refuses to lift.
I exhale, pressing my palms against the cool counter, grounding myself before stepping out of the pool house. The night air is brisk against my skin, raising a trail of goosebumps down my arms. I rub at them absently, my gaze drifting toward the main house.
Mason is in there, waiting for me.
I chew my lip, hesitating at the edge of the pathway. My pulse flutters uneasily, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on my chest. I don’t belong here. Not in his space. Not in his world. But I can’t bring myself to turn back.
Summoning what little courage I have left, I make my way to the back door.
And then I pause, fingers hovering just over the glass.
For a moment, I consider walking away.
Then, before I can second-guess myself, I knock.
Footsteps sound from inside, slow and measured, and then Mason pulls it open, standing there in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his chest bare, his hair slightly mussed like he just ran a hand through it.
My stomach clenches painfully.
He eyes me, then quirks a brow. “You didn’t have to knock.”
I shift on my feet. “I don’t know who else lives here.”
His lips twitch, amused. “I live alone.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I suddenly feel ridiculous for the formality.
He steps aside, letting me in, and the warmth of the house instantly wraps around me. The air smells like leather, like cedar and darkness. It smells like Mason.
“Hungry?” he asks, already grabbing his phone.
I should say no, but my stomach growls before I can stop it.
“Pizza okay?”
I nod. “Yes. That’s fine.”
He orders quickly, efficiently, then gestures to the sectional. “Sit.”
I do, tucking my feet under me, watching as he sinks down beside me, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. The space between us feels weighted, charged with something I’m too afraid to put a name to.
The pizza arrives, and we eat in easy silence.
Or, he eats. I mostly push my food around, my appetite nonexistent.
Mason notices.
His gaze lingers on me, curiosity flickering behind those sharp, unreadable eyes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push, but the way he watches me makes something tighten in my chest.
I don’t know how much time passes. The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly, lulling me under the weight of everything I’ve been holding in. My body feels heavy, too heavy to keep upright, and at some point, I shift closer, curling into the warmth beside me.
Mason stiffens, like he’s not sure if he should move.
But then his fingers brush against my hair, tracing lazy patterns, and the warmth of it seeps into my bones.
I should move.
But the gentle glide of his fingers through my hair wraps around me like a warm embrace, anchoring me in safety and quiet reassurance. The kind I haven’t felt in years. The kind I’m not sure I’ve ever felt.
So I let my eyes slip shut, sinking into the quiet, into him.
Mason doesn’t stop me.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like he’s grounding me—like maybe, just maybe, I’m grounding him, too.
And in the stillness of the night, with the weight of everything we’ve buried pressing down on us, we say nothing as I lower my head and fall asleep with my head cradled in his lap.