The motel room was too quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet—the wrong kind.
The kind that came after gunfire, when the only sound left was the pounding of your own heartbeat. The kind that pressed against your ears, suffocating, heavy, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed, legs bent, hands curled into fists against her thighs.
She was still shaking.
Her body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, her nerves frayed, raw from the last few hours. She felt unmoored, like she wasn’t in her own skin, like she was still running—still fleeing through that darkened estate.
She could still hear the gunfire.
Still feel the sting on her arm where the bullet had grazed her.
Still see Oliver, standing there with his gun raised, betrayal painted across h
