“Good job,” I tell him, and mean it in the only way that counts. “You did the right thing by telling us.” He nods; relief and terror tangled across his face.
Once the guys sweep the small house and confirm there’s nothing else hiding in the shadows, we circle back to Micah. He’s still trembling in the chair, the glow of the ruined laptop flickering across his face. I pass him our burner number and meet his wide, uncertain gaze.
“Disappear,” I tell him. “You know how. No family means no one they can use against you. Wipe your trail clean and don’t stop moving until you’re sure you’re off grid.”
He nods fast, almost violently, because he understands that staying put is death.
We leave him with nothing except a sliver of trust and a warning that will keep him alive if he’s smart enough to listen.
The door closes behind us, and the night crowds in. The air outside tastes like dust and momentum. We move away from the house with the information packed into our minds like live explosives. Fragile. Dangerous. Not enough to win—but more than we had before.
It isn’t everything. Not even close. But it’s movement. And in a war like this, movement is mercy.
The second we slam the van doors shut; the air shifts. All of us feel it. A new direction. A solid lead after days of smoke and static. We spread Micah’s scraps of information across our laps like a battlefield map and try to carve order out of chaos, but one detail keeps pulling us back in.
The drive he disposed of behind the diner.
It’s a long shot—a filthy, desperate one. The kind that either brings Kimber home or collapses into nothing. But it’s the only breadcrumb Micah left behind, and anything we can get our hands on can give us the clues to break this wide open.
We don’t hesitate to tear across the city, engine humming low as Ronan pushes the speed limits like they’re suggestions. No one talks. We don’t need to. Every one of us is thinking the same thing.
If that drive is gone, a chunk of Kimber’s time runs out with it.
When we pull into the alley behind the diner, the smell hits first. Sour grease, old fried food, wet cardboard, and rotting underneath it all. The dumpster is overflowing, garbage spilling over the edges like a massive, festering wound.
But the sight sparks hope—sharp and immediate. Overflowing means untouched. Untouched means the garbage truck hasn’t come yet.
We might still have a chance.
Before the van fully stops, Emerson and I are out the door. Boots slam concrete. My breath fogs in front of me despite the heat of the alley. I climb onto the dumpster without a second thought, bracing myself on the rim as I dig into the mess.
Behind me, the twins are talking, low and sharp, but I only catch pieces.
“Switch with her—”
“She shouldn’t be in there—”
“Rowan, don’t start—”
I snap over my shoulder without pausing my digging. “No. She’s my sister, too. I am not standing back while you all crawl through trash for her to protect my delicate senses.”
Their silence bleeds tension, but neither of them pushes.
I plunge deeper. My gloves tear through slick bags, sticky containers, piles of molding paper. Trash clings to my sleeves.The stench is so thick I can taste it. Every time something squishes wrong under my hands, I gag and force myself to keep going.
Emerson climbs in beside me, pale and sweating, but just as stubborn. He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, smearing who-knows-what across his temple.
Rowan mutters from below, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut steel. “This is fucking ridiculous. There has to be a better way.”
“There isn’t,” I grunt, tossing aside a leaking bag. “Keep watch. If anyone shows up, we need warning.”
Time blurs. Minutes stretch into a weight that drags and presses. Every rustle of trash sounds like a ticking clock. I keep imagining Kimber’s face. Her terror. The way Dean smirked when he showed her on the screen.
My heartbeat becomes a drum in my ears.
Then Emerson goes completely still beside me. A second later, he lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “I found it.”
Everything freezes. Even the alley seems to hold its breath. He lifts his hand slowly, like he’s afraid the small, filthy object between his fingers might disappear if he moves too quickly.