Chapter 4
Serafina drove with both hands on the wheel of her Outback, the familiar hum of the engine steady beneath her as Los Angeles thinned behind her.
The car was packed the way it always was—nothing loose, nothing decorative.
Her overnight bag sat in the cargo area, zipped and ready, thrown together without thought before she left.
She hadn’t known what she was packing for. A night. A week. Longer.
The clock on the dash ticked past midnight.
The radio murmured low.
“—authorities have confirmed limited direct contact between humans and non-human civilizations. Officials stress these encounters remain rare and tightly controlled. Details have not been released, though sources say some individuals have already left Earth under undisclosed agreements—”
She reached out and turned the dial.
She couldn’t afford to think about that. Not tonight. Worry was a luxury, and she’d learned early to spend it only where it mattered. You dealt with what was in front of you. You didn’t spiral over what you couldn’t touch.
Music filled the car instead. Something steady. Familiar.
Her phone lay face down in the console. She’d already messaged her lieutenant before leaving the station—brief, factual. Family medical emergency. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone. A few days. A week. Longer, if it came to that.
They’d deal with it.
She had the hours. Years of unused leave stacked from missed holidays and double shifts taken without complaint. She’d covered for people when they disappeared for births, funerals, divorces, breakdowns. She’d stepped in without asking questions.
Someone owed her. A lot of people owed her.
By morning, the case would be reassigned. Another detective would pick it up, read her notes, follow the thin leads as far as they would go. That was how it worked. The job didn’t pause just because you stepped away.
She accepted that.
Her sister’s voice stayed with her instead.
Hoarse. Careful. Thin.
Serafina tightened her grip on the wheel as the road curved, headlights cutting through the dark. She’d told herself for months that the goitre was stable. That insurance would come through eventually. That waiting was irritating but manageable.
She knew better now.
Breathing wasn’t negotiable. Time wasn’t flexible. And systems—insurance, departments, governments—moved too slowly when the margin got thin.
She checked the clock again, calculating distance without thinking. How soon she’d get there. How soon she could see it for herself.
Whatever was happening beyond Earth, whatever truths the world was adjusting to, could wait.
What mattered was San Diego. A dorm room. A swollen throat. A narrowing window.
Serafina pressed the accelerator a fraction harder and kept driving.