Chapter 204: Madeline
We eat on the beds with the movie finishing on low—closed captions on, volume a hush. Reid unfolds takeout like he’s laying out treasure: foil-wrapped pitas, a mountain of lemony potatoes, rice fragrant with cinnamon and bay, a Greek salad that actually has good tomatoes, and chicken still warm enough to fog the lids.
I blink at the spread. “How did you—? There aren’t, like, fifteen restaurants here.”
Reid shrugs, unbothered, that little curve at his mouth. “I’ve got my ways.”
Jake snorts. “Translation: he tipped an old fisherman to tell him where the good food hides.”
“Accurate,” Reid says, and passes me the potatoes.
They’re perfect—edges crisp, middle soft, lemon and garlic and something herby that makes me close my eyes. I tear off a piece of pita and swipe through tzatziki, pile on chicken, rice, a reckless cube of feta. It’s all so good I make a noise that earns me a pleased look from both of them.
“You like Greek,” Reid says, not a question.
“I love Greek,” I answer around a too-big bite. “How did you know?”
He lifts one shoulder. “You always order extra lemon. You always steal my olives.”
Jake points with his fork. “And you get feral about roasted potatoes.”
I laugh, caught. “Okay, fine. You pay attention.”
“Always,” Reid says simply.
The movie rolls toward its ending in soft subtitles. We talk between bites, easy and low. Logistics for tomorrow—badges at nine, questions at ten, lab time after. Jake says he’ll wrangle the MOU language; Reid will run interference if anyone tries to rush timeline. I’ll do the part that sets my blood singing.
“How do you feel about it?” Jake asks, spearing a tomato and popping it into his mouth like it owes him money.
I wipe tzatziki off my thumb and consider it, honestly. The nerves are there—fluttery, bright—but they live under something sturdier. “Ready,” I say. “Excited.”
Reid’s eyes warm. Jake’s mouth tilts like I’ve said the answer he wanted. Reid tops off my water without asking; Jake nudges the platter so the potatoes are closer to me than him, like he’s learned better.
Onscreen, the credits start to crawl. I tuck my feet under me, a piece of pita in one hand, and let the room settle around us—salt and lemon in the air, their shoulders easy, the day ahead lining up like a path I can finally see.
“Good,” Jake says, low, satisfied.
Reid meets my gaze over the takeout boxes. “Then tomorrow we make them believe.”
We decide to take turns taking shower. First it was Jake, and now it's Reid. The bathroom hums when he goes in; water ricochets off tile. Jake grabs the takeout bag, wads of foil and paper boats. “Trash run,” he says, kissing my hair on his way out to the bins downstairs. “Two minutes.”
“Okay.” The door clicks.
It’s just me and the motel quiet. I fish my phone out of my tote for the first time in… God. More than twenty-four hours. Between the institute and the guys, I forgot I even owned a rectangle that demands things. I told Charlie I would text her whenever I could and, honestly, I miss talking to her. She's the friend I've always wanted to have, so fun and loyal and kind. It reminds me that when we get back home, I'd love to tell her about my... relationship with her cousins. I have no idea how she'll take it, but so far I've told Charlie everything and I'd like to keep it that way.
So I decide to check Charlie's messages first. A text from this morning: finn almost burned the oven mitt. crisis averted. miss you. I smile, start to type—
Three other banners stack above it. Unknown number.
where are you hiding Maddie?
You know I don’t like when you ignore me
you and I belong together.
The world tilts. My fingers go slick and the phone slips; it hits the carpet facedown with a dull thunk.
It’s him.
All the air in the room goes thin. I sit very carefully on the edge of the bed and stare at nothing while my pulse tries to fight its way out. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to run until the ocean gives me different lungs.
Water roars on behind the door. Jake’s footsteps are somewhere out on the metal walkway. I’m alone. That’s the worst and best of it.
Breathe.
Charlie’s voice, cool and steel-edged, threads through the panic, as if she was here with me: He doesn’t know where you are. If anything, the texts prove it. He’s fishing. He’s guessing. He doesn’t know.
I curl my toes against the carpet until they hurt. Think. I left no trace. New town. New house. No posts. No patterns he’d recognize. And even here, with the research, we’re in and out of this town anyway. If we publish with the institute, it’ll be months. I won’t be here anymore, I'll be back in Northhaven. I won’t be anywhere he can predict.
My hands shake anyway. I pick up the phone. The screen wakes. Those three lines sit there like cuts.
He doesn’t know. He can’t.
The chills still rake along my arms, but the logic lands, stubborn and heavy. Change the number. First chance I get, torch the old one and throw the ashes in the sea. Clean slate. No more windows for him to lean through. How he got this number I have no idea, but if I change it he will not be able to get it. I won't give it to anyone but the SWMRI team. My current number was on police reports, so who knows if that's how he got it.
The shower sputters and slows. Water shuts off. On the walkway, a key jangles. I swallow, wipe my face with both hands, and sit up straighter, the texts still burning holes in my pocket and the truth louder than the fear:
I’m safe. And I’m not alone.