Chapter 24
Silas was still sitting on the bed, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress like it could anchor him to the room, the other rubbing at his face. His mind was still trying to replay last night, but every memory felt like a badly edited film — jump cuts, blackouts, flashes of pain.
Allen came over, not with the swagger he usually carried, but with that slow, deliberate walk of someone who'd been chewing on a thought before deciding to speak. He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"So…" Allen started, voice low enough that the guys outside the door couldn't overhear. "I'm hearing whispers you got your ass handed to you by Margaret herself." His lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Silas scoffed, sitting up straighter. "No. That old woman wouldn't stand a chance against me."
Allen raised an eyebrow. "That so? 'Cause the way you're sitting right now says someone played the drums on your ribs."
Silas rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. And it wasn't Margaret. I…" he hesitated, his gaze sliding to the far wall, "…I fought this blonde girl. Tall. Fast. Wouldn't go down even after—" He stopped himself, realizing he was about to say too much.
Allen's head tilted slightly. "Blonde girl?"
Silas nodded, still not catching the shift in Allen's face. "Yeah. She was skilled. Like, trained. I've put down plenty of people before, but this one—"
"You're sure she was blonde?" Allen cut in.
Silas finally looked at him. "Yeah. Why?"
Allen sat back, his posture going still in that way that made Silas's stomach tighten. "Because… there wasn't a blonde girl there last night. Not that we saw. Not in any of the clean-up. Not in any of the bodies."
Silas blinked at him. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Allen leaned in closer, "if she saw your face and she's still breathing, that's a problem. A big one."
The words hit Silas harder than he expected. "Shit…" he muttered, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was.
Allen's eyes scanned him like he was assessing a weapon for damage. "Jean doesn't know about her, right?"
Silas shook his head. "No."
"Good," Allen said quickly. "Then keep it that way. At least until we figure out how the hell to spin this."
Silas frowned. "You're saying we lie to him?"
"I'm saying," Allen's voice was tight now, "if Jean hears it from you the wrong way, he'll think you're sloppy. If he hears it from someone else first, he'll think you're hiding something. Either way, you're a dead man walking. And me, by extension."
The room felt smaller. Silas leaned back, exhaling slowly. "So what do we do?"
Allen tapped a finger against his thigh, thinking. "First, you remember every detail about her — clothes, voice, the way she moved. We keep that in our pocket until we know if she's surfaced. Second…" He gave Silas a pointed look. "You come up with a version of last night that makes you look useful, not reckless. If Jean thinks you just got beat by some random chick? Game over."
Silas sat there, tension knotting in his shoulders. "God… this is worse than high school detention."
Allen smirked faintly. "Nah. In detention, the teacher didn't own a freezer big enough to fit you in."
They both went quiet for a beat, the ticking of the wall clock loud in the silence.
Then Allen leaned forward again, his voice almost a whisper. "If Jean hears it from us wrong, we're screwed. If he hears it from someone else first…" He glanced toward the door where Jean had disappeared moments ago. "…we're dead."
Silas swallowed hard. For the first time that morning, his bruises didn't feel like the worst thing that had happened to him.
Brooks Library – Morning
The cab barely stopped before Devon was out, slamming the door and jogging toward the sagging double doors of Brooks Library. The old place looked like it was holding on by spite alone — dusty windows, a faint whine from the ancient AC unit, and a "Welcome Readers!" banner so faded it looked like it was saying "Wel me R aders."
He shoved the door open. The sound echoed through the hollow building like he'd just walked into a crypt.
Then he froze.
Because standing — no, wobbling — in the middle of the main aisle was Sage. Hospital robe half untied, IV tape still stuck to one arm, dried blood dotting the hem. He looked like a hot mess and a ghost had a baby.
Devon's brain short-circuited. First, Quinn blowing up his phone like the Second Coming was scheduled for 8 a.m. And now, one of the people he actually doesn't play with showing up looking like an extra from Walking Dead: The Model Edition.
"Sage?!" Devon blurted, already closing the distance. "What the hell happened to you?"
Sage's eyelids drooped like every blink was a negotiation with God. "I was jumped," he said, voice low and scratchy.
Devon blinked. "Jumped? By who? Where? When? How many—"
Sage held up a hand, which would've been more effective if it wasn't shaking slightly. "I need to rest. Find Quinn. And before that…" He inhaled and his nose wrinkled. "…bathe. You smell like sex."
Devon's mouth fell open. "Wow. First of all, rude. Second of all, you don't look like you can smell anything with all that blood loss."
Sage smirked — just a little — but it was there.
Devon slipped an arm under him to keep him upright. "You know," Devon muttered, "I wouldn't be smelling like sex if you weren't mean to me last night."
Sage arched an eyebrow despite looking like death warmed over. "So this is my fault? You're really blaming me for your… activities?"
"I'm just saying…" Devon said, adjusting his grip, "…if you'd been nicer, maybe you would've been the reason I smell like this."
Sage gave a tired laugh — just a puff of breath — but his mouth tilted like he wanted to keep the banter going.
Devon decided not to push it. He bent, hooking an arm under Sage's knees and lifting him. The move was smoother than he expected; Sage was lighter than he looked, and Devon tried not to notice how his fingers brushed warm skin where the robe had shifted.
"You're enjoying this," Sage murmured.
"Not at all," Devon lied, already heading for the corner where their group usually met. His boots clicked against the warped floorboards. "You're bleeding on me, remember?"
"Mm," Sage said, letting his head rest against Devon's shoulder. "Then hurry. You walk slow for someone smelling like scandal."
Devon reached the old couch — springs popping when he lowered Sage into it. Sage leaned back, exhaling like he'd just escaped something big.
Devon straightened, scanning the empty library. Quinn still wasn't here. His chest tightened.
It was time to find her.
★★★★★★★★
The cabin smelled like old timber and memories that didn't belong to any of them. Sunlight fought its way through dusty blinds, cutting golden stripes across the floor. Quinn stood in front of a bare patch of wall like she was giving a TED Talk on "People Who Almost Got Me Killed."
Tina and Trent were planted at the wobbly dining table, the mismatched chairs creaking in protest.
Quinn's tone was flat but heavy.
"First off, Tina… why the hell and what the hell were you doing at that estate?"
Tina tilted her head like she'd been waiting for that question. "Like I said, I came to meet my boyfriend."
Trent's head whipped toward her so fast the chair legs screeched.
"Your boyfriend?! Nah, hold up—because last night you called me—"
Tina didn't even let him finish. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, face calm like she was dropping a simple truth.
"I knew I was dumb, so I said a dumb thing that would make a dumb nigga come find me."
Quinn pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. "Fair enough."
Trent turned toward her, eyes wide in betrayal. "Fair enough? She—Quinn—she lied! To me!"
Quinn ignored him and zeroed back in on Tina. "Do you remember who I fought last night?"
Trent's brows knit. "Wait… fought? Who fought?"
Tina smirked. "Oh, you thought she just strolled through a crime scene looking like that? Girl went hands-on."
Quinn kept her expression calm, but inside her stomach twisted. She remembered him — Silas. The sharp focus in his eyes. The way he moved with precision and speed, every strike like it was meant to end the fight. She'd recognized the kind of fighter he was… and now, she knew the kind of trouble that recognition could bring.
"Nope," she lied easily. "Didn't see his face clear."
Tina leaned back, arms crossed. "Mm-hm. Sure."
Quinn's head snapped toward her. "Mm-hm what?"
"Mm-hm, you're lying, but we'll let you keep your little secrets."
Trent sat there, blinking between them like he'd walked into the middle of a TV show he'd never seen before. "Okay, so… just to confirm… you fought somebody, Tina was at the estate for 'boyfriend reasons,' and I—apparently—was the Uber?"
"Basically," Tina said without missing a beat.
Quinn turned away from both of them, muttering, "Where the hell is my phone?" She checked the couch cushions, then her bag. Nothing.
"Damn. Left it at the estate."
Tina gave a low whistle. "That's bold. Just leaving your tech for the crime scene fairies."
Quinn extended her hand toward Trent without looking at him. "Phone."
"Why?"
"Because mine's gone and I need to call someone."
"Who?"
Quinn leveled him with a look. "Do I look like I'm about to give you spoilers?"
Grumbling under his breath about "mystery women and their drama," Trent passed it over.
Quinn dialed, her face giving away nothing. Tina leaned in slightly. Trent watched like he was waiting for an Oprah-level reveal.
The ringing filled the room.
Tina whispered, "Who is it?"
Quinn didn't answer. Her gaze stayed on the wall, steady and unreadable..
They didn't know it yet, but the person on the other end of that line
was the kind of call that could burn this whole mess wide open.