Chapter 9 CARRIE
CARRIE
Barely a few days have slipped by since the ATF raid, but to me it feels like time has thickened, every hour dragging its weight behind it.
Though I’d intended to leave the apartment to Marcy, I realized after the raid that I couldn’t just leave.
Not if there’s a chance she’d try to find me there.
So I’m back home, and I try to keep busy, picking up around the apartment, doing laundry, letting the television drone in the background, but nothing helps.
Every window I look through, every cup of coffee I set down and forget, feels like a reminder that they’re still locked up and I’m here, useless, waiting for news that never comes.
I keep checking the local news channels, searching for something that might sound hopeful, or at least clear.
The anchors repeat the same story over and over—a major bust, federal agents seizing weapons, several suspects detained, charges pending.
No names are given, only “members of a known motorcycle club” and “possible accomplices.” My stomach knots every time I hear the words.
No one mentions Jace or Levi or Nico. There’s nothing about how anyone was treated, nothing about what actually happened.
The world is content to let their story be rewritten by strangers.
Yesterday, I couldn’t stand it any longer.
The silence in the apartment felt like it was pressing in on me, squeezing my lungs, so I got dressed and made my way down to the police station.
The sky was gray, a dull ache hanging overhead, and my shoes felt too loud on the tile floor as I stepped into the lobby.
I waited behind a woman trying to post bail for her son, her voice thick with worry.
When it was my turn, I stepped up and asked if I could see the men who were brought in from the raid, my voice careful, hoping not to sound desperate.
The officer behind the glass barely looked up.
She asked my name, who I was there for, and I told her.
She typed something on her computer and shook her head.
“No visitors. No communication. They’re being held for federal processing.
You’ll have to wait until they’re moved or their lawyer sets something up. ”
I pressed, voice breaking a little, asking if I could at least send a message or know if they were safe.
She met my eyes then, just for a moment, and I saw she had nothing for me, not even pity.
Another officer hovered nearby, watching the exchange.
I realized then that it was over before it had even started.
As I walked back to the car, my throat felt tight. I stared at my hands, at the little lines of ink where I had scribbled their names and questions I never got to ask. I wondered if they knew I was thinking of them, if they felt as alone as I did.
Now the apartment feels emptier than ever. Marcy’s room is still quiet, her bed made, as if she vanished along with everyone else I ever cared about. I sit at the kitchen table, staring out at the rain trickling down the glass, thinking about all the words I would say if I had the chance.
I sit by the window, watching the street below turn glossy with rain, and realize I’ve checked my phone at least a dozen times in the last hour. I keep hoping for a message from Marcy, even just a “hey, I’m okay,” but the screen stays blank, cold in my hand.
Despite everything that has happened between us, worry for her rises up and crowds out the rest. I called every friend I could think of, listened to their awkward silence, heard them say they haven’t seen her, not since the night of the raid.
I drove past her old haunts, the diner by the highway, the corner store where she sometimes hung out after work. No one has spotted her.
My phone vibrates once, but it’s just a spam alert. I toss it onto the table and let my head fall into my hands. All the old anger and betrayal I felt for Marcy, all the ways we failed each other, fade behind a sharp, simple need for her to just be safe.
Where are you, Marcy? I whisper it out loud, barely more than breath.
My words vanish into the quiet room. I try her number again, listening to the dull ring before it drops straight to voicemail.
It’s done that all day. The longer it goes, the more fear creeps in around the edges of my thoughts.
I wonder if she’s hiding, if she’s in trouble, if she’s as lost and alone as I am right now.
A sudden knock startles me out of my thoughts.
For a heartbeat, hope flares in my chest, wild and shaky, and I leap up, thinking maybe Marcy finally found her way home.
I rush to the door, already rehearsing what I’ll say, already picturing her on the other side with a sheepish grin and some kind of apology.
But when I open it, it’s not Marcy at all.
A man stands there, rain on his shoulders and a serious look on his face, dressed in a suit that’s seen a few long days. He glances down at a card in his hand before meeting my eyes.
“Carrie Saxe?” he asks, his tone all business but not unkind.
I hesitate, gripping the edge of the door. “Yes. Can I help you?”
He gives a faint nod and tucks the card into his pocket. “My name is Wilson Decker. I’m an attorney. I represent some of the men who were arrested at the clubhouse. I’d like to ask you a few questions about that night, if you’re willing.”
I blink, thrown off by his presence. The name sounds familiar from things I’ve overheard, but it feels strange to have him on my doorstep. My mind races through everything that’s happened—Marcy missing, the raid, the ache in my chest that hasn’t let up for days.
He waits, not pushing his way in, just standing there under the thin shelter of the porch. “We can talk out here if you prefer, but it’s important.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the apartment, still uncertain if I want to let anyone else inside my world right now. Finally, I open the door a little wider, voice quiet but steady. “You can come in. I guess I have some questions too.”
He nods in thanks and steps in, careful not to drip rain on the rug. For a moment, the apartment feels different with someone else in it, but I try to keep my breathing steady as I close the door behind him and lead him to the small kitchen table.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offer, mostly out of habit, my nerves jangling. He gives a polite no, settling into the chair across from me.
“All right,” he says, opening his briefcase, “let’s start from the beginning. I just want to hear your side of what happened the night before the raid.”
I settle across from Decker at the kitchen table, folding my hands to keep them from trembling. The air is tense but not unfriendly. He waits, his notebook open but his gaze patient, letting me find my words.
“It was all a mess that night,” I begin, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Jinn and I broke up. I walked in on him and…Marcy. My own sister. I thought I knew what betrayal felt like before, but that—” I stop, biting the inside of my cheek, then shake my head.
“Anyway, I left. I didn’t want to see either of them after that. ”
Decker scribbles something, then glances up, searching my face. “And Marcy? Have you seen her since?”
I shake my head, worry threading through my words. “No, not since that night. She’s not at her friends’ places, not at the clubhouse. I’ve tried calling, texting. Nothing. I keep thinking she’ll just walk through the door, but…”
I look away, blinking hard, then force myself to continue. “Honestly, I’m scared for her. I know she makes bad choices, but she’s still my sister. I just want to know she’s okay.”
Decker’s expression softens slightly. He nods, jotting another note. “Thank you for telling me. I know this isn’t easy.” He pauses, his pen hovering. “You haven’t had any contact at all since that night? Not a call or message?”
“Nothing,” I whisper.
He leans back in his chair, watching me closely.
“Carrie, you have to understand—the ATF isn’t going to just take your word for it.
They’re going to think you’re part of this conspiracy, that maybe you were working with Jinn or covering for Marcy.
They’re not going to buy that you and Jinn just broke up and you happened to be at the clubhouse. ”
A chill creeps down my spine. I twist the edge of my shirt in my lap, trying to keep my voice even. “But…what about the guys? Jace, Nico, Levi. They know I’m not involved, don’t they?”
That gets Decker’s attention. He looks up from his notes, his gaze sharpening in the low kitchen light. “Why does it matter what they think?”
I hesitate, caught off guard by the question. My cheeks warm and I stare at my hands. “Because…I don’t want them to think I set them up. I just—I care about them. They don’t deserve this.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods, as if he understands more than I meant to share. “I’ll do what I can for them. But for your own sake, Carrie, you need to be careful what you say and who you trust right now.”
After Wilson Decker leaves, the apartment falls into a heavy silence. I stand by the door for a moment, pressing my palm against the wood, trying to steady myself. My hands are still trembling, my mind replaying every word he said.
The warning rings in my ears: Be careful who you trust.
I make it a few steps into the kitchen, hoping maybe I can breathe for a second, maybe drink a glass of water and let some of the fear fade. I’m just starting to feel like I can put myself back together when another knock comes—louder this time, more impatient.
Before I can even reach the handle, the door bursts open.
Agents in dark jackets and vests sweep inside, shouting commands.
The letters ATF glare back at me in the lamplight.
The living room fills with bodies, heavy boots thumping on the worn floor.
One agent grabs my arm, another flashes a warrant, and the familiar terror I thought I’d left at the clubhouse surges up all over again.
They begin searching the apartment, opening drawers and cabinets, pulling cushions from the couch. The fear claws higher, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear their words. For a moment I’m sure I’ll faint, but I force myself to stay upright, to answer what I can and keep my voice steady.
A man steps forward, taller than the rest, his vest marked with a name: Special Agent S. Rodriguez. His eyes pin me in place as the others move through the apartment.
“Where is he?” Rodriguez demands, his tone harder than anything I’ve heard so far. “Where are you hiding him?”
I swallow, confused and shaking my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not hiding anyone.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t act like that. We can have an arrest warrant in your name drawn up in an hour. You think we don’t know who you are? You lied to us before.”
Behind him, another agent rifles through my purse, papers scattered. Rodriguez leans closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound almost personal. “We know you’re not as innocent as you pretend. You’re not the nobody that you claimed to be. You’re the president’s girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I say shakily.
He straightens, his expression colder than before. “You’re too close to all of this, Carrie. You can’t just walk away clean. Whether you knew everything or not, you’re in it. The only choice you’ve got left is how much you help yourself.”
His words sink in, heavy as stone. I realize then that it doesn’t matter what I say or how hard I try to explain. They’ve already decided I’m guilty of something. I can see it in his eyes.
“What do you want?” My voice barely comes out, raw and thin.
Rodriguez smirks, nodding a little, almost like he’s pleased. “Smart girl. Straight to the point.”
He steps in, his presence filling the narrow space between us. “I want information, and you’re going to give it to us.”
I swallow, my mind racing, searching for a way out. “What do you mean? What kind of information?”
Rodriguez’s jaw tightens as he paces the room, frustration leaking into every step. “The men won’t break easy, that much I’ve understood,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“They won’t,” I say quietly, holding his stare. “Because they didn’t do anything wrong.”
He turns on me, anger sharp in his eyes. “That’s for us to decide, not you.”
I don’t argue, but deep down I know who’s really responsible for all of this. Jinn set them up. The thought burns in my chest, but I bite it back, unwilling to give Rodriguez more ammunition.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, voice flat. “I don’t have any information.”
Rodriguez sits on the edge of a chair, folding his hands and studying me for a moment.
“You want a way out of this, Carrie? Then you’re going to help us.
We need eyes and ears on the inside, someone who can tell us what’s really going on in there.
You want to help your friends, clear your own name? That’s how you do it.”
His words settle over me like a net, every instinct telling me this is a trap. But I can feel my options slipping away, one by one.