Page 13 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

"So, where's the moving truck?" I ask, leaning against Rhett's pickup. The morning sun beats down on the cracked parking lot of Bree's apartment complex, making the air shimmer like a mirage. It's the kind of heat that usually has me cracking jokes about melting, but today feels different. Heavier.

Bree shifts uncomfortably beside Gray, her keys clutched tight in her hand. She's drowning in one of Rhett's old hoodies, and something about that makes my chest ache. "We don't need one," she says quietly.

"Come on," I grin, trying to keep things light. "Everyone needs a moving truck. How else are we gonna haul your furniture? Your books? Your—"

"Jace." Theo's voice carries a warning, but I'm already trailing off as I catch the look on Bree's face.

She won't meet any of our eyes as she moves toward the building's entrance. "It won't take long," she mumbles. "I don't have much."

The stairwell smells like stale cigarettes and regret.

Each step creaks under our feet, the sound echoing off grimy walls.

I try to think of something funny to say—it's what I do, right?

Keep things light, keep everyone smiling.

But the words stick in my throat as I watch Bree climb ahead of us, her shoulders hunched like she's trying to make herself smaller.

Third floor. No elevator. Because of course there isn't.

Bree stops at her door, and I notice how her hand shakes as she fits the key into the lock. The handle sticks, and she has to jiggle it just right—the kind of thing you learn from doing it a thousand times. Behind me, I hear Gray's sharp intake of breath. Yeah, buddy. I feel that too.

The door swings open with a groan that makes my teeth ache. Bree steps inside first, and we follow like a funeral procession. The thought makes me want to laugh, but the sound dies in my chest as I take in her apartment.

It's... empty. Not the kind of empty that comes from packing things up. Just empty. Like she never really moved in at all.

The lumpy couch sags against one wall, its fabric worn thin in spots. A coffee table that's seen better decades sits in front of it, covered in water rings and what looks like old burn marks. There's no TV, no pictures on the walls, nothing that makes a place feel like home.

"Bree," Theo breathes, and there's so much in that one word it makes my chest hurt.

She wraps her arms around herself, still not looking at any of us. "I told you it wouldn't take long."

I scan the room again, trying to find something—anything—that says this is where our Bree has been living. But there's just... nothing. A few boxes stacked neatly in the corner. Some books. A journal on the coffee table.

"Where's your—" I start, then stop, not even sure how to finish that sentence. Your life? Your things? The proof that you existed here?

"This is it," she says quietly, and fuck if that doesn't hit me like a punch to the gut.

Rhett moves first, crossing to the boxes with that quiet intensity of his. His jaw is set in a way that means he's grinding his teeth—a habit he picked up in firefighter training. He needs to do something, to fix this, but there's nothing to fix. Just empty space and too many questions.

Gray hasn't moved from the doorway. His eyes are sharp, cataloging everything—or rather, the lack of everything. I know that look. He's putting pieces together, and I can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he doesn't like the picture they're making.

"The kitchen—" Wes starts, taking a step toward it, but Bree cuts him off.

"Don't." Her voice cracks. "Please."

But he's already looking, we all are, and Jesus Christ. One plate. One mug. A handful of utensils. The kind of setup you'd have in a motel room, not a home.

"How long?" Gray's voice is too quiet, too controlled. "How long have you been living like this?"

Bree shrugs, the movement small and defeated. "Does it matter?"

"Yes." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. "Yes, it fucking matters."

She flinches, and I immediately hate myself for it. But I can't help it. This is Bree. Our Bree. The girl who used to help me with my homework even when she was dead tired from her own. The one who always made sure we ate during finals week. Who took care of everyone but herself.

And we let this happen.

"Okay," Theo says, and thank God for him because someone needs to be practical right now. "Let's start with the boxes."

He moves toward them, and I follow because it's something to do with my hands that isn't punching walls.

As I lift the first box—light, too light—I catch movement by the window.

For a second, I think I see something shimmer in the air, like heat waves rising from asphalt. But when I blink, it's gone.

Probably just the sun playing tricks. Has to be. Because the alternative—that I just saw the same mist that's been following Bree since we were kids—that's not something I'm ready to think about.

Not yet.

Lifting the boxes is almost worse than seeing them. Each one feels like a confession—how little she has, how much she's been hiding. I can hear the others moving around the studio behind me, their silence heavy with things none of us know how to say.

"You've got books," I try, aiming for light as I peer into one of the boxes. "That's good. Theo was worried we wouldn't have enough nerdy stuff in the house."

The joke falls flat, especially when I see what else is in the box.

A worn teddy bear, its fur matted and one ear torn.

I recognize it immediately—she's had it since we were kids.

Since before her mom left. My throat gets tight as I realize this box probably holds everything she couldn't stand to lose.

Everything that survived her father.

"Where do you sleep?" Gray asks suddenly, his voice tight as he takes in the empty space. There's no bed, not even a mattress. Just that lumpy couch that looks about as comfortable as concrete.

Bree wraps her arms around herself. "The couch folds out," she mumbles, but we all hear what she's not saying. That ancient thing probably hasn't folded out properly in years.

I move to the closet—the only other storage space in the tiny studio—and my heart sinks further.

A few sets of scrubs hung neatly on wire hangers.

Two regular outfits that I recognize because she's worn them so many times.

A pair of pajamas folded on the shelf above. That's it. That's her whole wardrobe.

"The lease," Gray says, turning to Bree. His voice is carefully controlled, but I can see how white his knuckles are where he's gripping the closet door. "How much do you owe?"

She shakes her head. "I can handle it."

"Bree." His voice carries that edge we all know too well. "How much?"

"Two months," she whispers, staring at the floor. "But I'll figure it out. I always do."

Always do. The words hit me like a freight train. How many times has she been in this situation? How many times has she had to "figure it out" while we were all busy with our lives, thinking she was fine just because she said she was?

"I've got it," I say, the words coming out before I can think about them. When she starts to protest, I hold up a hand. "Nope. Not negotiable. Consider it back rent for all the times you helped me pass calculus."

"Jace—"

"He's right," Theo cuts in smoothly. "Though I think chemistry was more my territory."

"You all helped," she says, her voice small. "You don't owe me anything."

"That's not how family works," Rhett says quietly, and something in his tone makes her finally look up.

I watch the tears well in her eyes before she blinks them back. She's trying so hard to hold it together, to keep those walls up, but they're crumbling. We can all see it.

"Hey," I say, crossing to her. I stop just short of touching her, remembering how she flinches sometimes. "Remember when we were kids, and you used to smuggle extra cookies to Gray because his dad never bought any?"

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "You knew about that?"

"'Course we did. You weren't exactly subtle, short stack." The old nickname slips out naturally, and for a second, she looks so much like that little girl—the one who took care of all of us even when she had nothing—that my chest aches. "Let us return the favor. Please."

The mist—or whatever it was—moves again by the window, catching my eye. This time I'm sure I'm not imagining it. It curls around Bree's feet like a cat seeking attention, and I swear the air gets heavier, charged with… something.

But now isn't the time to bring that up. We've got other ghosts to deal with first.