Chapter 30
Landon
The morning hum of the shop settles into its familiar rhythm—clanging wrenches, Wes singing off-key to the radio, Becket muttering at a rusted bolt. Normal. Exactly what I want for Marcy. A day that feels like any regular Thursday, not the kind that leaves scars.
The front bell jingles, cutting sharp through the noise. Nova breezes in with her scarf half-sliding off her shoulder and hair loose around her face. She carries a bakery box like it’s her golden ticket past Becket’s inevitable scowl.
“Hey there, grease monkeys,” she calls out, her grin bright against wind-flushed cheeks. “I bring sustenance as promised—still warm.” The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee cuts through the motor oil and metal tang hanging in the air.
“Bless you,” Wes grins, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag that’s more black than its original blue. He abandons the disemboweled engine, tools scattered like forgotten toys around him.
“Jesus, Wes.” Becket’s voice echoes from under the hood of a rusted pickup, only his legs visible beneath the chassis. “You ate six pancakes before we got here. How the hell are you still hungry?”
“Driving here with your cranky ass worked up an appetite,” Wes says, snatching a cinnamon roll that leaves a glistening trail of icing on his fingertips. Steam curls up from the coffee he grabs with his other hand.
“I don’t doubt it,” Nova mutters, her scarf slipping further down one shoulder. “Is Marcy here? I got her a sprinkle donut—the pink one with extra rainbow bits—and I want to make sure she gets it before this human vacuum inhales everything.”
“Hey!” Wes protests around a mouthful, crumbs catching in his stubble. “When have I ever stolen someone else’s food?”
“Yesterday,” Joon mutters, coming over while wiping his hands methodically on a clean shop towel. “And Monday. And last Thursday.”
“Aw come on, how was I supposed to know that sandwich was yours?”
“Besides my name written in Sharpie on the wrapper?” Joon takes his coffee with oil-stained fingertips, the ghost of a smile softening his usually stern face as he nods to Nova.
Nova grins back, blonde curls bouncing as she shakes her head. “You guys bicker like old ladies at a church bake sale.”
“Don’t knock old ladies. They rock, just like the Golden Girls. I’m totally a Blanche.” Wes licks icing from his thumb with a theatrical wink. He nods toward Becket, hunched over the engine. “That one’s definitely a Dorothy. Always a buzzkill with those judgmental eyebrows.”
Nova snorts, leaning her hip against the workbench. “Can’t argue there.”
Becket doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss how his knuckles whiten around the wrench he’s gripping, the metal gleaming under the fluorescent shop lights. His jaw ticks—a small muscle jumping beneath the three-day stubble—as he turns back to his work, shoulders rigid beneath his oil-stained coveralls.
I don’t know what’s going on with him and Nova lately. They’ve always bickered like siblings fighting over the last pizza slice, but lately there’s been more bite to it—a sharp edge that cuts through the usual playful jabs.
I decide to step in before things escalate. “Marcy’s upstairs. I’m sure she’ll be happy for the company.”
Nova nods and swipes a coffee and the sprinkle donut off the counter before heading back outside toward the apartment.
I bend back over the Civic in bay two, the smell of burnt oil and coolant sharp in my nostrils as I tighten a radiator hose clamp until it bites into the rubber.
Through the thin ceiling, I hear Nova’s knuckles rap against the apartment door—once, twice, then a third time with more force.
The shop falls quiet; even Wes stops humming.
I wait for the familiar creak of floorboards, Marcy’s light footsteps, but there’s nothing but hollow silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
The door upstairs finally opens with a squeak of hinges, but closes almost immediately.
Seconds later, Nova bursts through the front door, her face drained of color, coffee forgotten in her trembling hand.
“Landon.” Her voice slices through the shop like a cold blade. My stomach plummets to my steel-toed boots. “What?”
“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.
“She thinks she’s protecting us,” I rasp.
“She thinks wrong,” Becket says, his tone flat.
I nod, jaw so tight it aches. The note crackles when I fold it, once, twice, into the smallest square I can make. I tuck it into my pocket like it might actually stop me from chasing her.
But my body is already humming with the need to move. To fix. To find.
Because safer without me?
Like hell.