Chapter 12 – Marlowe
Chapter Twelve
MARLOWE
My eyes latch onto it, desperate for something to ground me. Maybe if I stare hard enough, time will shatter and rewind, spit me out somewhere I can fix all this.
Is Arlene worrying about me? Did she go to my apartment and find anyone there? Is Joel on his way here yet? Is Taylor okay? Or is she…No. I can’t go there. I won’t go there.
My father…what if he’s already…Stop.
Panic claws at my ribs, my chest tightening like a fist is squeezing the air from my lungs. Every second that ticks by is another second wasted, another second I’m not where I need to be. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the silence, but not the fear. Never the fear.
My heart won’t slow down. It’s thudding so fast I can’t catch a full breath, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Everything feels wrong. Too loud. Too sharp. Too much. My head drifts, as if it’s slipping free from my body.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to focus.
Five things I can hear. The hum of the car. My heart beating. The sound of the leather seats when I move. Bridger cracking his knuckles. Cody tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Four things I can see. I open my eyes and name them in my head.
Distant mountains. The dark swirls of tattoos on Damian’s skin. Dark gray clouds. The horizon shimmering like a mirage, like none of this is real.
Three things I can touch. The rough denim stretched across my thighs. The smooth leather of the seat. The cold metal zipper of my hoodie.
Two things I can smell. The deep, rich vanilla of my shampoo. The fabric softer scent of my shirt.
One thing I can taste. Blood. I must’ve bitten the inside of my cheek. I let the copper settle on my tongue. Remember Lo, you’re still alive.
My breathing slows. A little. My hands are still trembling, but I’m not floating anymore. I’m in my body. I’m still here.
Then the sky grumbles, deep and guttural, thunder rattling through my ribs.
Lightning slashes through the clouds, jagged and violent, veins of white splitting the darkness above.
But there’s no rain. Not a single drop. Just the charged weight of the storm pressing down, restless, waiting, like the whole world is holding its breath.
A sign looms ahead, rising from the dust. Mountain Springs. Thick wooden planks, old and weathered, the letters carved deep and stained dark. It’s bolted onto poles that sink into stacked rocks, the kind of rustic, unshakable thing meant to withstand whatever the desert throws at it.
Cody turns there, guiding the SUV off the highway.
The pavement disappears in minutes, replaced by gravel and dirt. The tires crunch over the uneven road, dust curling in thick plumes behind us.
Then, a house.
It rises from the landscape like it was carved into the desert itself, a sprawling ranch-style home, warm wood and stone, wide porch, gleaming windows. Beautiful. Expensive. Is this where I die—without ever looking for what I came here for? Dread tightens, slow and deep in my gut.
The SUV rolls to a stop and Cody shifts into park.
Damian reaches over, his arm brushing against mine as his fingers find my seatbelt clasp.
A slow, deliberate press, click, and the belt slides free.
His body is close, too close, all heat and taut muscles.
His breath ghosts against my cheek, warm, steady, but threaded with something dark.
There’s no room for me to pull away. I’m already pinned against the door.
Damian lingers, his hand gripping the strap of the seatbelt for a fraction too long, his mouth near enough that if I turned my head… No.
He finally leans back, his voice low, quiet, but edged with steel. “Get out.”
Bridger opens his door first, stepping out. He pulls my door open before I can react, before I can even think, and suddenly, he’s standing there, waiting.
My fingers twitch in my lap.
Every instinct screams at me not to move.
Bridger waves me out, and I hesitate for half a second before stepping down onto dry crunchy grass.
I don’t run. I don’t fight. Not yet.
I follow them up to the porch, my heart pounding with each step.
Up close, the house doesn’t look as perfect as it did from the road.
The wood is weathered, the paint peeling in places where the sun has beaten it raw.
The screen door groans when Cody pushes it open, and inside, the air is stale, thick with the acrid scent of something burnt. Charred wood. Scorched fabric.
I step in slowly. The place feels lived in but worn; scuffed floors, a sagging couch with an old throw draped over the back, a pair of slippers kicked off near the door. The kitchen counter is cluttered with mismatched mugs, an open bag of coffee, and a few empty beer bottles pushed to the side.
But then my gaze catches on something that doesn’t fit.
A row of framed photos on a narrow shelf.
I move closer, my mouth dropping open as I take them in.
One of them shows Damian, Bridger, and Cody seated around a worn wooden table, beers in hand, caught mid-conversation. Another shows them standing around an older woman, maybe in her early sixties, her expression warm, happy.
Then, another. The three of them, younger, shirtless, sitting on motorcycles, laughing, sun on their bare skin, muscles leaner but already strong. No worries. Just reckless, untouchable youth frozen in time.
Warmth rises to my cheeks as my eyes land on the last set of photos. High school graduation pictures. One of each of them, standing stiffly in their caps and gowns, the same unmistakable sharpness in their eyes, even back then.
Oh my God. Are they brothers? Is this where Damian grew up? What the hell is going on? Why am I here?
Before I can ask, the brothers split off in separate directions.
“I’ll check the basement,” Cody mutters.
“I’ll take out back,” Damian replies.
“I’ve got this floor,” Bridge says.
And then they’re gone. The door to the basement creaks open, swallowing Cody in darkness. Damian disappears through the back entrance without a glance in my direction. I don’t see where Bridger goes.
And I’m just… standing here. No explanation. No orders. No idea what the hell is happening. Worst kidnappers ever.
A slow, uneasy chill creeps up my spine.
They’re looking for something.
Or someone.
I don’t know how long I stand there staring at those photos, my mind racing, trying to piece together what it all means. But when they all step back inside, I know something is very wrong.
Cody wipes a hand down his face, his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Bridger’s shoulders are tight, his expression lost. And Damian, Damian looks pissed. His jaw is set, fists clenched at his sides, frustration radiating off him in waves.
I don’t like this. My pulse kicks up, an uneasy chill creeping along my spine. What the hell is going on? I take a step forward. “What are you looking for?” I ask, my voice cracking. “What’s happening?”
Damian doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me.
“Damian.”
Nothing. His fingers twitch, his nostrils flare, but he keeps his eyes locked on the floor like if he acknowledges me, he’ll snap.
That only makes my stomach sink further.
He’s not just angry. He’s something else. Frustrated, yes. But there’s something beneath it, something tighter, something like… fear? A cold rush of anxiety spreads through me, coiling low and sharp. “What the fuck is going on?”
Silence.
I clench my teeth, frustration bubbling up fast and volatile, a live wire ready to snap.
They dragged me out here, blindfolded me with their secrets, and now I’m just supposed to stand here, waiting, while they stomp around searching for something…
like I’m just background noise, like I don’t even matter?
No. Fuck that.
I cross my arms, grounding myself, steel in my spine. “You know what? Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.” My voice rises, sharp and cutting. “But give me the damn car so I can do what I came here to do so I can get the fuck back home.”
Damian finally lifts his head, his eyes dark and furious.
Bridger exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, his hesitation stretching too long, too thick. Then, finally, he mutters, “We’re looking for our mom.”
The words don’t compute. I blink. What? I stare at him, waiting for him to clarify, to make it make sense, but he just stands there, silent.
I scoff, shaking my head. “Your mom?”
Bridger doesn’t react.
Something inside me snaps. The frustration, the tension, the goddamn secrecy, it all boils over, fast and merciless.
“Jesus Christ.” A sharp, humorless laugh tears from my throat.
“She probably ran away from you. I would.” I gesture between them, my anger spilling out unchecked.
“I mean, why wouldn’t she? You’re criminals.
You kidnap innocent women. You break into bakeries like fucking idiots—” I throw Damian a glare, my voice dripping with venom. “She’s probably embarrassed as hell.”
The second the words leave my mouth, Damian moves.
No warning. No growl of anger. No razor-sharp retort.
Just a sharp pivot, his boots grinding against the floor as he strides for the door.
And then, boom.
The entire room shakes as he slams it behind him, the sound like a gunshot, like the crack of a bone.
I flinch, my pulse hammering, breath too fast, too shallow. But I don’t care. I don’t. He wants to be pissed? Let him be pissed. He doesn’t get to be mad at me.
Cody exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
I snap my glare to him, my arms crossing tighter, holding myself together. “If no one’s going to tell me anything, then I get to make my own assumptions.”
Bridger watches me for a long second, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. He drags a chair away from the table and sinks into it, his shoulders slumping under something heavier than exhaustion. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Too quiet. “Our mom has early-onset dementia.”
The room tilts.
I open my mouth, but nothing, nothing, comes out. The words don’t fit. They don’t belong here. They feel wrong, like I misheard, like this is some kind of joke.
Kidnappers don’t have moms.
They don’t have human problems that I would feel bad about.
They don’t sit in worn-out chairs, running their hands through their hair, looking like the weight of the world is caving in on them.
They don’t speak in voices that sound too raw, too careful, like they’re holding something fragile together with nothing but sheer will. This is a joke.
But Bridger doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. “She wanders through the house sometimes,” he says, careful, like he’s afraid the words might break apart midair. “But now she’s just fucking gone.”
I look out the window at the wasteland they live in, where coyotes, scorpions, and rattlesnakes slither beneath rocks.
And she’s out there. Alone. With dementia.
The thought digs into me, sharply. She could be wandering, lost, confused, with nothing but the endless miles of nothing stretching in every direction.
No landmarks. No safety. Just the blistering sun by day, the cold dark by night.
I swallow hard, but it sticks, lodged deep.
My grandmother had it too: Alzheimer’s. Vick dumped her in a state-run facility before the ink on her diagnosis had even dried.
Within three months, she didn’t know my name.
I was never close with her, though—Vick made sure of that.
But I remember how fast the forgetting came, and how Vick stopped visiting after a while.
All the anger I’m holding unravels. I stare at him, my breath caught in my throat, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
We have to find her.