Page 111 of Played
Daniel's out there somewhere. Waiting. Planning.
I know exactly how this works—I've lived through enough of his cycles to recognize the pattern. Daniel doesn't just give up and walk away when things don't go his way. That's not how his mind operates. He never has, and he never will.
Instead, he retreats into the shadows, licking his wounds, nursing his bruised ego, letting the silence stretch out like a loaded weapon. He regroups methodically, analyzing what went wrong, figuring out where his approach failed. He strategizes with frightening precision, plotting his next move like a chess master studying the board.
And then, when he's ready—when he's convinced himself he's found the perfect angle of attack—he comes back. Always comes back. And every single time, he comes back harder, meaner, more determined than before.
The question isn'tifhe'll strike again.
It'swhen.
And what terrifies me most is that I have no idea what form his next breakdown will take. Before, I was the only target. Now he's expanded his scope—Julian, Reeves, the pool hall.
What's next?
"You're doing it again."
I jump, nearly dropping the mug. Julian stands in the doorway, hair disheveled, cast-covered hand resting against his chest.
"Doing what?"
"Catastrophizing." He crosses to me, kisses my temple. "I can practically hear your thoughts spiraling from the bedroom."
He's right.
I force a smile. "Just enjoying the quiet."
But we both know better.
The quiet never lasts.
I'm elbow-deep in sudsy water when my phone buzzes on the counter. The detective’s name flashes across the screen—the one I spoke to about Dylan's phone.
My stomach drops.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Singh.” His voice comes through the line, professional but edged with something I can't quite place—maybe exhaustion, maybe resignation. "We brought Mr. Ross back in for questioning. We've spent the last several hours going over everything again with him—all the details surrounding Claudia McAllister’s disappearance."
I grip the edge of the sink. "And?"
"Unfortunately, the evidence you provided—the text messages—can't be used. Chain of custody issues. Without a warrant, we can't search his property, and we don't have enough probable cause to obtain one."
The words blur together.Can't be used. No warrant. Not enough.
"So that's it? You're just letting him go?"
"Our hands are tied. I'm sorry."
Sorry?
I end the call. Stand there, dripping dish soap on the floor.
All of it—every single moment of that awful party, the nerve-wracking act of stealing Dylan's phone right under his nose, the enormous risk I took sneaking into that house full of people who could've caught me at any second, all of it was for absolutely nothing. The weight of it crushes down on me, settling heavy in my chest like a stone. I feel so utterly, completely helpless.
Daniel's still out there. Untouchable.
The bowl in my hand—my grandmother's ceramic mixing bowl—suddenly feels impossibly heavy. I hurl it at the wall. It explodes, shards skittering across the tile like shrapnel.
