Page 35 of Crown of the Mist

The mist surges, it seems to be feeding off my anger or maybe responding to it. The temperature drops several degrees.

"Gray." Theo appears in the doorway, his usual calm expression cracked around the edges. "We found--"

"I heard." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Where is he?"

"Gone." Jace emerges behind Theo, holding something small and electronic. "For now. But he was here earlier. Had a real interesting phone call with daddy dearest."

The casualness of his tone doesn't match the darkness in his eyes. I know that look - have seen it in the mirror every time I remember the sounds that used to come through our shared wall.

"Her father's still..." The words stick in my throat.

"Pulling strings?" Jace's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Oh yeah. Seems our friend Phil's beentaking orders this whole time."

My fingers itch to hit something. Someone. But violence won't help her now. We need to be smarter than that.

"The cameras," I say, forcing myself to focus on immediate problems. "Evidence?"

Theo nods, already ahead of me. "Documented placement, took photos. But we can't go to the police. Not yet." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "If we spook them too badly..."

"They might try something worse," I finish. The thought sends ice through my veins.

The mist thickens around us, almost solid now. Through the open door, I can see a couple of boxes stacked neatly - her whole life packed away in cardboard. The sight makes my chest ache.

"We need to move fast," Jace says, pocketing the camera. "Get everything out before--"

A door slams somewhere below, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. The mist reacts instantly, coiling like smoke before a fire.

"Back entrance," I say quietly, already moving. "Now."

We work in practiced silence, grabbing boxes and bags. The mist follows as we slip out through the service stairs, helping to obscure our movements or maybe just watching. Always watching.

It's not until we're loading the last box that I catch sight of her nursing uniforms, carefully folded. Such a small collection for someone who gives so much. My throat tightens as I think of how many shifts she must have worked in these, caring for others while barely keeping herself afloat. Of the little girl who used to press her palm against our shared wall, tapping out coded messages when she was too scared to sleep.

The bitter irony doesn't escape me - her most precious memories are safe at home now, but these mundane pieces of her life somehow hit just as hard. Each box feels like evidence of everything we missed, every sign we should have seen sooner.

"Gray." Theo's voice pulls me back. "We need to go.”

I nod, carefully placing the box in my truck. We can't protect her from the past, but we can damn well make sure she has a better future.

22. Bree

"You have cardamom?" The words slip out before I can stop them, surprise overriding my usual caution. The spice cabinet in their kitchen is more organized than I expected, full of things I haven't been able to afford in years.

Wes leans against the counter, watching me with that steady gaze of his. "We have everything."

Something in his tone makes me look up. His dark eyes hold mine, and the weight of what he's not saying settles in my chest.We have everything you need. Everything you want. Just stay.

I turn back to the cabinet, fingers trailing over glass jars. "I used to..." The words stick, but I force them out. "My mom taught me this curry recipe. Before she..."

"Show us?" Rhett's voice is carefully neutral, like he's afraid of spooking me. He stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, looking moreuncertain than I've ever seen him.

The mist drifts lazily around my feet, calm in a way that somehow makes the decision easier. "Okay."

They move around me as I gather ingredients, maintaining careful distance while somehow making the kitchen feel less empty. Rhett chops onions with the same precise focus he brings to everything, while Wes measures spices I call out without questioning why I don't need to look up amounts.

"You've done this before," Wes observes quietly when I add spices by feel rather than measuring.

I swallow hard, stirring the onions Rhett hands me. "After mom left... Dad didn't really cook. So I had to learn. Had to remember what she taught me."