Page 21 of Crown of the Mist

13. Jace

"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 fabricworn 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 eyesare 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 himbecause 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.