Even if the part of me that's getting louder — the part that sounds like Vaughn sayingstay with me— knows that it doesn't have to.
Chapter 16
Vaughn
It's been two hours since I texted Robin. No response.
I'm not that guy. I'm not the guy who panics over response times, who reads meaning into silence, who spirals when a text goes unanswered. I'm patient. I'm steady. I'm the second who holds the line when the alpha can't.
But Robin should have had a break by now. Even on bad Gordon days — a heart emoji, a joke, a complaint. Even when his phone is technically banned from the line, he sneaks something during breaks. I know this because I've been tracking it, because Vaughn-the-mechanic reads patterns the way he reads engines, and Robin's pattern just broke.
I send another text:Hope work's not too crazy today.
Nothing.
At four o'clock, Toby walks in wearing a cardigan covered in llamas wearing sunglasses. Normal day. Normal Toby.
"Hey, Vaughn!" He settles onto a barstool, cheerful. "Knox around?"
"Office."
He starts to head that way, then stops. Looks at me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring at your phone."
"Have you heard from Robin today?"
Toby pulls out his phone. Scrolls. Frowns. "No. He usually sends me memes during his break." He tries calling. I watch his face change. "Straight to voicemail."
"His phone's off?"
"Or dead. He's terrible about charging it." But Toby's frown is deepening, and I can see him doing the same math I've been doing. Robin's terrible about charging, yes. Robin also texts Toby every single day. Every day for as long as they've been friends.
"Call Ash," I say.
Toby calls. I hear the conversation — muffled, fast, concern escalating on both ends. Ash didn't hear from Robin this morning either. Robin left for work at four and hasn't checked in.
Two minutes later Ash is downstairs, shirt untucked, face tight. Jason's right behind him. Knox emerges from the office. Silas appears at the top of the stairs. Ezra materializes from wherever Ezra goes when he's not visible, which is most of the time.
"When did you last hear from him?" Ash asks. Already pulling out his phone.
"This morning. He texted me at 4:52 when he left for work."
Ash calls Robin. Voicemail. Calls again. Voicemail.
"Let me check his location." He opens an app. His face goes still. "Phone's completely off."
"Maybe the battery—"
"Robin knows never to turn his phone completely off." Ash's voice has gone flat — military flat, the voice of a man switching from civilian to operational. "That's our rule. Since he was eighteen. Always be findable. He knows."
He dials another number. I watch his face cycle through confusion, alarm, cold fury.
"Yes, I need to speak to Robin Martinez. He works in your kitchen." Pause. "What do you mean he's not there?" Longer pause. His jaw tightens. "When? Is he okay? Hello?" He stares at his phone. "Hung up on me. Said Robin was fired this morning and hung up."
"Fired?" Toby's voice goes high. "Why? What happened?"