The silence in the safe house wasn’t like the silence at home.
There, it had felt controlled. Managed. Like everything was exactly where it should be.
Here—
it felt empty.
Like something was missing.
Or waiting.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone again, replaying everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours.
The messages.
The photo.
The fire.
The police.
The way Max had looked when he walked through that door.
And now—
this.
Being moved.
Hidden.
Told to stay in one room like that would somehow fix everything.
It didn’t feel like protection.
It felt like isolation.
I stood up abruptly, pacing the small space.
This wasn’t me.
Sitting still.
Waiting.
Doing nothing while everything happened around me.
That wasn’t who I was.
It wasn’t who
