"You were thinking it."
"I'm alwaysthinking, Rex. That's what brains do." He pauses to glance at Phoenix. “Most people’s, anyway.”
Phoenix snorts. I fix my gaze on the window with a low growl and watch Seattle blur past.
The city looks different today. Same gray sky, same rain-slicked streets, same endless parade of coffee shops and tech bros and tourists. But everything has this strange quality to it. Distant. Like I'm watching it happen on a screen instead of living through it.
Dissociation. I know what this is. I've been doing it since the accident, and right now, the dark room is calling. I can feel it pulling at me, that quiet space where nothing hurts because nothing exists.
No photos.
No comments.
No face.
Just blessed emptiness.
But Bells's thigh is warm against mine.
And some pathetic, needy part of me is clinging to that warmth like it's the only real thing in the world. Which is stupid. Which is weak, and exactly the kind of vulnerability I've spent years learning to destroy.
I don't move away, not even an inch.
I should. IknowI should. Every survival instinct I've developed screams that letting anyone this close is dangerous, that I'm setting myself up for catastrophic fucking failure.
But I've apparently lost my grip on reality because I don't move.
Like the city itself, Foxhole Studios looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. Same converted warehouse. Same graffiti on the east wall. Same parking lot with its potholes and faded lines.
Everything's the same.
Nothing'sthe same.
Rafael parks next to Carmine's vehicle. Phoenix is out first, then Rafael, then Bells pulling me after her because the chain doesn't give me a choice. When we head inside, Phoenix leading the way for once, Carmine is already there, perched on a stool near the mixing board with his tablet balanced on one knee.
He looks up when we enter. His eyes track from Phoenix to Rafael to Bells to me, then down to the fuzzy handcuffs connecting our wrists.
His expression doesn't change.
"Interesting accessory," he says mildly.
Nobody responds.
Carmine gestures to the ratty couch against the back wall. "Sit. We have a hell of a lot to discuss."
We sit. Phoenix takes the armchair. Rafael leans against the wall with his arms crossed. Bells and I end up on the couch, pressed together because the chain doesn't allow anything else unless we get up and play musical fucking chairs.
Carmine studies us for a moment. Whatever he's thinking, his face gives nothing away.
"I'm going to show you something," he says. "And I need you to understand this isn't to cause more pain. It’s simply reconnaissance. We need to know exactly what we're dealing with before we can address it."
He taps something on his tablet and turns the screen to face us.
The photo fills the display. High-definition. Every fucking detail of my ruined face captured and preserved for public consumption.
I already saw it. I saw it yesterday, right before I turned off my phone and walked to Nash's grave. But seeing it again hits different. Harder.
Because now I'm seeing the comments.