Chapter 31 Raelynn
THIRTY-ONE
RAELYNN
I thumb through the files spread across the coffee table again, the edges of the papers soft and curling from how many times I’ve handled them.
I’ve been at this all day, since waking up in the late afternoon, burning through hours circling the same details, retracing the same lines, waiting for something to finally give.
The only light in the apartment comes from the lamp beside the couch, its warm glow pooling over photographs and reports.
After last night’s events (thank you, Emilio), my head is clearer. The storm that had been tearing through my thoughts has finally calmed, the chaos settling into something quieter and more focused. Not gone though, just contained. For now.
He wasn’t exactly thrilled that the first thing I did after waking up—post-shower and scrounging up something to eat—was dive back into the files. However, he didn’t try to pull me away or tell me to stop. Instead, he stayed by me.
Throughout the day, he took care of me in ways that never demanded my attention.
A fresh mug of coffee would appear beside me when the last one went cold.
A glass of water pressed into my hand when he noticed I hadn’t taken a single sip in hours.
Food nudged within reach when time slipped by and I forgot to eat altogether.
A blanket adjusted around my shoulders when I started to shiver without realizing it.
He never interrupted my thoughts, never asked what I was looking at or what I’d found.
He was just there—steady, patient, and unwavering.
He sat with me—or rather, I sat on him—pulling me into his lap every chance he got, and I wasn’t one to complain.
His presence grounded me, anchored me to something solid while my mind stayed buried in the past. It was comforting, calming, and just distracting enough to keep me from spiraling.
His fingers drifted through my hair in slow, absent-minded passes, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone in this, even when the weight of the files threatened to pull me under.
And honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I lift my mug off the table and take a sip, savoring the sweet flavor of the hazelnut and mocha. I go back in for another sip but freeze mid-swallow when I realize something.
Emilio feels it immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been ignoring the biggest fucking clue of them all,” I mutter as I set the mug back down on the coffee table.
“How do you mean?” he asks, shifting under me. I half turn, and his brows pull together. “Rae? What is it?”
I drag in a breath that trembles at the edges and stare down at the faces on the table. “The clue is me, Emilio.”
“I don’t follow.”
I slide off his lap and stand, restless energy fizzing in my legs. “Me. They all knew me.”
“We already know this, baby…”
“Yes, but how does he know that?” My voice snaps sharper than I intend.
I gesture to the photos. “Khloe was my best friend; she was always around me. But Liam? Bailey? I barely talked to them. Hell, Liam and I haven’t said more than four words to each other since we stopped being friends a couple of years ago.
The most that has been said was ‘Hello,’ and that was in passing!
How the hell would someone know to target them, unless they knew something about me that I didn’t tell anyone? ”
Emilio lifts a file, thumb tapping the paper’s edge. “You think he’s watching you,” he says slowly. “That he’s been watching for a while.”
“He has to be,” I say, the words spilling faster now, my pulse thudding in my throat. “There’s no other way he could know about Liam or Bailey. I didn’t post about them, I didn’t hang out with them in public—hell, I didn’t even mention them to you until after they were killed!”
He straightens, the file forgotten in his hands. “So either he’s digging into your life through someone on the inside, someone with access to reports, records…”
“Or he’s close enough to have seen it himself,” I finish.
His jaw works. “Or he has access himself,” he adds, quieter.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence presses down, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Emilio stands, his decision made in one swift motion. “I’m taking this to Rodriguez and Meyer. Now. They need to know.”
I nod, gathering the files into a stack even as dread crawls up my spine.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach.
There’s a possibility that whoever this is, it’s someone I know.
Someone I trust, someone within my circle…
or it’s someone who has been standing just outside it where I never thought to look.
I hug the files to my chest and nod, though dread crawls up my spine like cold water, and follow Emilio as he starts down the hall to his room. I set them down on the dresser, open it, and grab a pair of leggings from inside. They are halfway up my thighs when Emilio turns to me.
“No, you’re staying here.”
I blink, then haul them up the rest of the way. “What? No. Fuck that.”
“Rae, listen to me,” he says, his tone clipped and controlled. “If he’s out there watching you, I’m not risking it. I’ll take the files, talk to Rodriguez, and come back. It shouldn’t be more than an hour tops.”
I take a step towards him and fold my arms over my chest. “If he’s watching me, then he already knows where I am.
You’re just as much a target as I am, maybe more, because he knows you won’t let him get near me.
So no, I’m not staying. You’ll have to handcuff me to the bed again if you want to keep me here. ”
He hesitates—just long enough to tell me he’s considering my argument.
“If he’s been waiting for a chance, separating us is what he’d want,” I say, softer.
His jaw flexes, and after a tense beat, he exhales a sharp, resigned breath. “Fine. You win. But you’re not leaving my fucking sight. Get your shit.”
I nod and grab a pair of socks from the drawer, tugging them on with shaky hands before slipping into my boots.
The leather creaks softly as I lace them, the sound swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner and the low thud of my heartbeat.
I sling the files under my arm and follow Emilio out of the bedroom.
He’s already by the door, sliding his gun into its holster.
Without a word, he grabs a sweater off the coat hook and tosses it to me, and I pull it on.
My bag waits by the door—one of the few things I was able to gather from my apartment before coming to stay here—I pick it up and shove the files into its front pocket before slinging it across my shoulder.
As Emilio locks up behind us, a ripple of unease crawls under my skin.
The parking lot is nearly empty, save for a few cars and a single flickering streetlight that throws light in erratic bursts.
Every shadow feels like it’s breathing, and the sound of Emilio’s keys jingling is deafening in the quiet.
He unlocks his truck and opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in.
The leather seat is cold, stiff beneath my legs.
He closes the door, rounds the front to the driver’s side, and climbs in.
He jams his key into the ignition and turns it on, and the low rumble of the engine fills the silence.
For a few moments, neither of us speaks.
The city fades behind us in streaks of orange and white, the glow of the streetlights thinning into long stretches of dark asphalt and the occasional neon sign buzzing in the distance.
The roads are mostly empty, the world reduced to the rhythmic sweep of headlights cutting through the night.
I count the pools of light as they pass—one, two, three—anything to keep my mind from slipping back into fear.
Then I feel the shift. Emilio’s posture stiffens. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his palms.
“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. He does this several times. “Someone’s following us,” he says finally, his voice low and tense.
A chill rushes through me. I twist in my seat, peering out the back window. Headlights glow faintly several car lengths behind us. “How can you be sure?”
We were only a couple of miles from his apartment, and this was a relatively busy road, albeit not at this very moment, but still.
“I’m not sure yet,” he mutters, scanning the road ahead. “Let’s find out.”
He takes a sharp right turn onto a side street. My shoulder slams lightly against the door from the sudden motion. I watch through the mirror as several seconds later, the headlights follow. Emilio’s jaw tightens. He takes a left, then another right. The headlights mirror every turn.
My heartbeat drums against my ribs as we take another hard right, only for them to be right on our fucking ass again. “Emilio…”
“I see them,” he says, voice clipped. “Hang on.”
He speeds up, tires squealing as he weaves down a narrow side street lined with closed shops and shadowed alleys.
The headlights stay close, just far enough to taunt us.
Emilio takes another turn, then another, faster this time.
The world outside blurs—a jumble of yellow streetlamps, broken fences, and the gleam of wet pavement.
He finally pulls into a narrow lane behind a warehouse and cuts the lights. The truck idles quietly, its engine ticking as we sit there, the sound of our breathing loud in the cabin. I twist in my seat again, looking out every window I can.
Nothing.
After another minute, Emilio exhales, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “I think we lost them.”
I don’t know if I fully believe him, but I nod anyway.
He drives slowly through the side streets, looking into every space big enough to conceal a vehicle.
He eases the truck forward again, crawling through side streets until we emerge back onto Speedway Boulevard.
The traffic lights ahead cycle through their colors for no one.
Emilio’s gaze flicks between the mirror and the road as he accelerates.
“Emil—”
Blinding headlights surge toward us, and Emilio’s name dies on my tongue.
The impact hits like an explosion. Metal whines and glass bursts around us like a hailstorm, glittering in the dark.
My head slams against the window, the seatbelt biting into my shoulder as the truck rolls—once, twice, then again.
Each rotation steals the breath from my lungs.
When it finally stops, we’re upside down. The world has gone eerily quiet except for the hiss of the engine and the slow drip of leaking fluid. My ears ring so hard it feels like a scream. I can taste blood, metallic and sharp, on my tongue.
“Rae!” Emilio’s voice cuts through the haze, frantic but alive.
I turn toward him, heart hammering. Blood trickles down his temple. “Emilio,” I cough out.
“Hold on, baby, I’ll get us out of here,” he says as he fumbles for something in his pocket.
Something slips from his grasp, clattering against the crushed roof above us. “Shit—” He reaches again, fingers scrabbling for it. When he finally grasps the object, he opens it, revealing a pocket knife. He quickly saws through his seatbelt, dropping heavily to the ceiling, then cuts mine loose.
The second I fall free, he grabs me and pulls me close. “It was him,” I rasp, tears brimming in my eyes. “I know it was him. He didn’t leave. He was waiting.”
“I know, baby. I know, but we’re still not in the clear,” he says as he brushes the tears away. “Are you in any pain? Can you walk?”
I quickly flex every joint and nod. “I-I can walk,” I reply.
“Good, because we need to get out of here right fucking now.” He lets go of me and pushes toward the driver’s side window. “Okay, come on, baby,” he says, reaching back for me.
I follow, glass biting into my palms as I crawl across the roof of the cab. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I’m halfway through the window when the night splits open with a single, deafening crack.
A gunshot.
“Emilio!” I scream, his name tearing through my throat as I twist, trying to find him. “Emilio!” I call out again, panic lacing my voice.
No response. Only the groan of the wrecked truck and the faint hiss of leaking fuel. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. I crawl back inside, searching blindly for anything—a weapon, a phone, anything at all. My fingers close around a shard of glass, my hand shaking.
Then I hear it.
The sound of footsteps and crunching glass outside the wreck. A low whimper escapes my lips. “Emilio?” My voice breaks.
The footsteps stop just outside the shattered window, and everything in me goes still. My heart slams so violently against my ribs that for a moment, I swear it’s trying to escape. The figure bends, and the weak glow of a distant streetlight catches its face—no, not a face. A mask. His mask.
A strangled noise tears from my throat. I scramble backward, my hands slipping over glass and blood-slick metal.
My legs hit the backseat, and I push myself between them, desperate, half blind with panic.
I am barely between the seats when a gloved hand shoots through the window, fingers closing around my ankle like a vice.
I scream, kicking and thrashing, but he doesn’t flinch.
The grip only tightens, dragging me backward inch by inch.
I kick again, connecting with something solid—his arm, his shoulder, I don’t know—but it proves absolutely useless as he continues to pull.
My fingernails rip through the leather seat as I claw for leverage, for anything to hold onto. He yanks hard, and my grip slips.
“No, no, no, no, please no!” The words tear from me in a half sob, half scream as I am dragged through the cabin, my body scraping across the broken glass scattered through the wreck.
Shards bite into my skin, slicing fire across my stomach and arms as I am hauled out of the truck completely.