Chapter 226: Jake
I open the door to Charlie and Sloane.
“Come in,” I say, stepping back. Reid holds the door a beat longer than necessary like he’s measuring the force it would take to close it on someone’s face.
Sloane clocks Cruz immediately, lounging at the end of our couch like a man who belongs everywhere. “Who’s that?”
Cruz rises with an easy smile. “Hey—sorry. I swung by to spend time with my bros and didn’t know they were in a meeting. We met at the Seafoam for their birthday.” He gives her the same friendly nod he gives fishermen and bouncers—affable, forgettable.
Sloane’s mouth tilts; she buys it and heads for the dining table.
Charlie’s eyes flick to Cruz and flinch. She remembers. She knows. Then she smooths it into “hi,” squeezes his arm once in that tight little way that says thank you for being here without saying it, and takes a seat beside Sloane.
I shut the door. The house suddenly feels too small for four people and a storm.
“Okay,” I say, taking my chair at the head, Reid dropping into his at the far end. “We need to talk about your behavior.”
For once, Sloane doesn’t bristle. She leans back, smug. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
Reid’s voice is level but edged. “Ever since Madeline stepped foot in Northhaven, you haven’t liked her. True or not. Before whatever you think you found.”
Sloane swallows and nods. “True.”
“Because of Finn,” I say. It’s not a trap; it’s a map. “We’re not trying to torture you, we need the picture we’re actually dealing with.”
She scoffs. “Partly because of Finn. Also because I just don’t like her.”
Heat climbs my neck; I push it down. “Fine.” I slide the printed PDF she sent across the table and keep my eyes on her. “We reviewed the document you sent. Had it analyzed by a friend in law enforcement. It’s a falsified report.”
Across from her, Charlie’s brows knit, confusion slicing through her composure. “What?”
Sloane focuses on Charlie like she’s hunting an ally. “I was told by someone Madeline committed a crime in the city. He reported her and she ran—to here.”
“Explain how that unfolded,” I say. “Every step.”
She crosses her legs, as if we’re on a podcast. “When I went back to the city weeks ago, I casually asked about her at her school, then looked her up online. I got a text—from someone asking if I knew Madeline. Weird, but I was curious, so I said yes. We texted a while. Then we met. He knew her before she came here, said she endangered someone so badly they had to be hospitalized. She’s a criminal.”
“Wow—calm down,” Charlie snaps, color rising. “There’s no way.”
Sloane slaps the report toward her—hard enough that the staples clack against the wood. “There’s a whole-ass police report.”
“Wait, no. No, no,” Charlie says, eyes running the page and then pulling away like it stings.
“Police report is fake,” I cut in over the rising noise. “The person texted you after a simple Google and a couple questions at the school. He probably works in IT and has a watch set on her name, or access to a system that flags queries. He found you because you popped her name.” I tip my chin at Sloane. “He baited the hook.”
She scoffs again, but there’s a flicker—confusion, calculation.
Reid and I both look to Charlie at the same time. She’s shaking. Tears track down her cheeks like she didn’t feel them start. “What?” I ask, softer. “Hey. What.”
“This is the report Madeline filed,” she says, certain, voice breaking. “I’m sure of it.”
Cruz turns his head; that’s exactly what he said to me on the phone. “Why are you sure?” I ask.
Charlie’s hands are fists on the paper. “Because Madeline told me what her ex did to her, and this looks like it—like the negative of it.” She glares at Sloane. “Her ex.”
Sloane blinks. “Her ex? The guy I met—Nick—didn’t say he was her ex. So that’s not the same situation at all.”
Charlie goes pale, then nuclear. “When she broke up with him, he started stalking her,” she says, words tumbling. “He kidnapped her in a car and drove so fast he could’ve killed her and she jumped out—she jumped out—” Her voice climbs and frays. “She broke things. She had to be hospitalized. The police didn’t do anything.” She’s on her feet now, the chair scraping hard. “That’s not it. He cut the power to her dorm during spring break—right before she came here—and tried to break into her room and was making threats to hurt her and she had to run out the window barefoot for miles to the police station.”
The room tilts. For a beat all I can hear is my pulse.
Reid is shaking like an earthquake, hands flat on the table, tendons standing out like cables. I have never seen him like this. “He—” It’s a word made of glass. He can’t finish it.
Sloane stares, blanching, then stammers, “No. No, the guy said—he said she did that—”
Cruz stands, all the civilian ease burned off. “Please tell me you didn’t tell this guy where she lives.”
Sloane’s eyes go wide. A flicker of guilt, or realization, or both.
Before she can answer, a sharp chime snaps the air. All our heads turn at once.
Madeline’s phone—on our island, face-up on the charger—wakes.
The screen floods with notifications in a staccato cascade—one, five, twelve—stacking over each other faster than the banner can clear. The red sliver of battery gives way to an avalanche of texts. The house fills with a soft, relentless ding, ding, ding, like a heartbeat accelerating into panic.
For a second, nobody moves.
The sound keeps coming. The room narrows. Cruz is already moving. Reid’s chair screeches back. Charlie’s hand flies to her mouth. Sloane looks like she’s swallowed ice.
I grab the counter to steady the world and feel it anyway—a cold, rising certainty.