Page 2 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

I stood painfully, and moved through the apartment like a stranger in my own space, like I might bump into someone still watching.

My breath stayed shallow, chest tight, every step echoing too loud in my ears.

Entering the bathroom, I turned on the tap, and let the water run until it was ice cold.

Splashed it on my bruised face, again and again, like that could wash it off.

The memory. The contact. The helplessness.

But it clung. It had soaked in too deep.

I wrapped my arms around myself and backed out of the room. Everything felt too quiet. Too still. I didn’t know if I’d been alone the whole time. I didn’t know if I was now.

My stomach turned before I even saw the envelope.

I knew it would be there. Knew it like I knew my own heartbeat. I walked into the kitchen already braced for it, but it still knocked the breath out of me.

A manila envelope. Unsealed. My name scrawled across the front in thick black marker: STELLA. No last name. No instructions. Just the kind of deliberate familiarity that didn’t ask for obedience, because it simply expected it.

My hand hovered, unwilling. But the silence pressed in, and I touched it anyway, like the choice had never really been mine.

Inside was exactly what I’d feared: a pre-filled-out transfer of ownership.

My name, my building, the business that had my blood baked into its foundation, ready to be signed away to a faceless company I’d never heard of.

The only thing not filled out was the signature line, like it was already theirs and they were just humoring the formality.

Taped to the front was a scrap of yellow notepaper, torn from the top of a legal pad.

You’ve got five days, sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

The word made my stomach twist. It didn’t read like a nickname.

It read like a leash. A warning wrapped in sugar.

I held the paper for too long, stared at the curve of the handwriting, the weight of the ink.

It wasn’t what was written; it was what wasn’t .

There were no threats. No reminders. Just the assumption I understood exactly what happened next, if I didn’t comply.

I looked around the room and felt it—that sense of being watched, even in the solitude.

The windows were shut, the doors locked, but it didn’t matter.

They, whoever they were, had already shown me they didn’t need to break things to take them.

Their weapons were quieter than force. Sharper.

Calibrated with precision. I stood there barefoot on the cold tile, the envelope still clutched in my hand, holding the price tag of my own survival.

The restraints were gone. The bleeding had stopped.

But I had never felt more contained, more carefully boxed in by choices that weren’t mine.

They hadn’t killed me, not because they couldn’t, but because I was more useful alive. A better tool. A quieter weapon.

Now, somehow, I was supposed to play the role. Show up. Sign on the line. Smile, like gratitude had replaced fear. Like this wasn’t coercion dressed in clean lines and legal ink.

I wore black. Not for drama, but for concealment.

A high neckline to mask the bruises climbing my throat, sleeves long enough to hide what still throbbed beneath the skin.

Sunglasses to cover the redness that clung to my eyes no matter how many times I rinsed them.

Heavy makeup, to hide what clothing couldn’t.

I had stitched myself into something that looked like composure—cotton, silence, posture, control—hoping that if I looked whole enough on the outside, no one would notice how hollow I felt inside.

The Truman courthouse sat in the middle of a pretty town square in downtown Independence, but I didn’t notice much.

Horns and footsteps and voices all blended into an endless hum as I exited my car and walked towards the imposing brick building.

People rushed by with coffee cups and phone calls, swinging messenger bags, or stuffing parking receipts into sun-heated dashboards.

Life went on, like it didn’t know I was carrying evidence of a crime I hadn’t committed, and might not survive reporting.

I kept my head down and my steps steady as I entered the courthouse, the government-issued blandness of fluorescent lights and beige tile washing over me.

My heels clicked across the polished floor, each sound ricocheting back into my ears like a shot.

I forced my expression into something neutral. Unassuming. Forgettable.

The envelope in my hand felt heavier than it should’ve. Heavier than paper. Heavier than ink. It felt like an execution order, folded in half and sealed without apology.

The woman at the front waved me toward the second desk. A man in his thirties sat there, sleeves rolled, tie slightly loosened. Friendly enough. Nondescript. I handed him the envelope and explained why I was there with as few words as possible, praying my hands weren’t visibly shaking.

He flipped it open with casual efficiency and began scanning the documents. His fingers moved in practiced rhythm. His expression didn’t change at first.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he said without looking up, eyes still fixed on the paperwork. “Just verifying the transaction details.”

I nodded once, afraid my voice might betray me.

Heat and cold warred beneath my skin, each surge leaving me more unsteady.

My shirt clung to the sweat along my spine.

Sweat slicked my damp palms. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

My pulse hammered in my ears, loud, fast, impossible to tune out.

Something shifted. Barely a flicker. His hand stalled mid-page. A subtle tension pulled at his brow. Lips pressed together. His gaze moved, paper to screen, screen to paper. One keystroke. Another. A pause, tiny, but out of place.

It wasn’t a disaster. Not yet.

But panic doesn’t wait for proof. It bloomed anyway, low and sour, curling in my gut like smoke.

“Give me just a moment,” he said, standing with careful ease. “I need to check something in the back.” He moved without urgency, disappearing through a narrow side door he left open behind him.

Check something in the back.

The phrase hit wrong. Too casual. Too practiced. It echoed louder than it should’ve.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every instinct screamed to run, but I knew what that would mean—how it would look, what it would cost. So I held still.

Spine locked. Breath shallow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

One breath. Then another. My knees ached from tension, but I didn’t sit. Didn’t flinch. I waited.

Thirty seconds. Then sixty.

When the door creaked again, the clerk held it open and gestured for me to join him. My stomach dropped, but I couldn’t afford to lose the facade of calm nonchalance I was clinging to so desperately. I stood, picked up my things, and followed him.

“My apologies, Ms. Evans. Transfers like this can take time sometimes. We just need to work out a few details, and so I wanted to offer you a more comfortable place to wait. Just through here, if you please.”

He showed me through a door and into some sort of meeting room.

There was a mid-sized table with a few chairs around it, a TV on the back wall, and a water cooler beside the door.

Nothing about the room was threatening, but I suddenly felt like I was entering an interrogation.

My stomach was in knots, and I was sure I was sweating profusely.

I gave the man a weak smile and took one of the chairs.

“Feel free to help yourself to some water, Ms. Evans. I will return as soon as I have everything straightened out. I appreciate your patience.”

“No problem.” I managed to get out. The clerk gave me a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, and shut the door behind himself.

As soon as I was alone, I squeezed my eyes shut and put my face in my hands. I barely held back full-on sobs, but I could not help the few tears that leaked between my closed eyelids.

What is going on? Is this just how it works, and I’m freaking out about nothing?

No, something wasn’t right. The clerk had seemed nervous.

But maybe I was just projecting? I couldn’t be sure.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was trapped in this room as certainly as I had been tied to that chair in the concrete room.

If I stayed, whatever the clerk was worried about might lead to everything being uncovered.

If I ran, not only would they know I was up to something shady, but I wouldn’t complete the task that my captors had given me.

And I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I failed.

So I sat and watched the clock tick by, feeling like every second was an hour. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty. I jumped nearly out of my chair when the door clicked open again, but it wasn’t the clerk returning.

Someone else stepped in.

Taller. Broader. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark jeans. Gray button-down, sleeves rolled. A badge clipped to his waistband, not concealed, not advertised. No radio. No holster. Not local PD. Not in uniform, at least. Not someone I could afford to trust.

His eyes found mine the second he entered—sharp, deliberate, brown like scorched earth.

“Stella Evans?” he asked, voice low and measured. It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It carried.

My blood went cold. “Yes?” I said, the word tight in my throat, my fingers clutching the strap of my purse so tightly I felt the skin pinch.

“My name is Detective Quinn Mercado. I need you to come with me,” he said, already taking a step forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just close enough to feel like a corner being built around me.

I blinked, confused and suddenly furious with myself for not planning for this. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”