I wake to the smell of coffee and the low murmur of voices downstairs. For a moment, I forget everything, the messages, the photos, the fear that's become a constant weight in my chest. Then reality crashes back in, and my stomach twists.
The burner phone sits silent on my nightstand. No new messages. No missed calls.
Somehow, that's worse.
I pull on sweatpants and one of Zeke's hoodies that he left in my room last week, and pad downstairs. Mom and Zeke are in the kitchen, both looking like they didn't sleep much either. Mom's still in her robe, nursing a cup of coffee. Zeke's in sweats and a t-shirt, his hair messy, dark circles under his eyes.
He looks up when I enter, and something in his expression softens. "Hey. How'd you sleep?"
"I didn't." I pour myself coffee, my hands shaking
