Page 24 of Joker

“Oh,” she says, delighted. “That funny.”

I look out the windshield before either of them can see my expression, because for some reason that stupid little joke feels like more than it should.

Maybe because Lexi laughed. Maybe because Joker, who looks like he could break a man’s jaw without getting winded, actually paused long enough to think of a joke clean enough for a three-year-old. Maybe because that tiny moment of softness feels absurdly out of place in the middle of all this fear.

Whatever the reason, it settles into me quietly and stays there.

Lexi lets out one more sleepy little laugh, then says, “I’m gonna sleep now.”

Joker nods once. “Probably a good idea.”

She shifts in the back, dragging Bunny up beneath her chin, and within five minutes she’s out.

Actually out.

No tossing. No asking questions. No waking every few seconds to make sure I’m still there.

Just asleep.

It should probably worry me how quickly she goes down, but I know exactly why it happens. She’s exhausted in the way only kids can be when life has wrung too much out of them too fast. Stress sits differently in children. They don’t always cry when they’re carrying too much. Sometimes they just get quiet. Sometimes they fall asleep in car rides and on couches and instrange rooms because their little bodies are trying to catch up with fear they shouldn’t even understand yet.

That realization sits heavy enough that I have to look away.

Outside the windows, the world is mostly dark. Louisiana has already started fading behind us, the roads stretching longer and emptier the farther we get from the chapter. The sky is deep and moonless, the kind of black that swallows shape and detail whole. Every now and then headlights pass in the opposite direction, streaking white across the windshield before disappearing into the rearview mirror behind us. Beyond that, it’s mostly just tree lines, open stretches of road, and the occasional glow of gas stations or roadside signs flashing by.

The truck itself is warmer than I expected, though not uncomfortably so. It smells faintly like leather, clean laundry, motor oil, and something darker beneath it that I can’t quite place. Not cologne exactly. Just…him. The scent of a man who spends a lot of time in engines, smoke, and worn cotton.

That thought is inappropriate enough that I shove it away immediately.

The first stretch of the drive after Lexi falls asleep is painfully awkward. Not because Joker is making it awkward. That would almost be easier.

No, the problem is that he isn’t doing anything wrong.

He isn’t talking too much. He isn’t asking invasive questions. He isn’t trying to fill the silence because he’s uncomfortable with it. He’s just driving, one forearm braced loosely against the wheel, the other hand shifting when needed, his attention split between the road and the mirrors with a kindof calm focus that somehow makes me more nervous than if he’d been chatty.

I don’t know what to do with a man who doesn’t demand anything from me.

That thought lands harder than I want it to.

I turn my face toward the passenger window and stare into the dark, watching the reflection of the dashboard lights skim over the glass every time we pass something with enough shape to catch it. My purse sits in my lap, my fingers still curled around the strap like I’m afraid if I let go, I’ll lose the few things inside that still feel like mine.

Beside me, Joker says nothing. And somehow that’s worse for my nerves. Because silence with Cal was always dangerous.

Silence meant he was angry. Silence meant he was thinking. Silence meant he’d already decided how the next hour was going to go and I just hadn’t figured it out yet.

I know, logically, that this is different. I know the man beside me is not my husband.

I know he hasn’t done a single thing to suggest he’s going to turn this drive into another version of something I need to survive. And still, every quiet stretch makes my shoulders tighten on instinct.

I hate that.

I hate that I’ve become this woman, measuring silence like it’s a weapon.

I shift in the seat and tuck a strand of fake blonde hair back beneath the baseball cap, the cheap wig itching against my scalp in a way that makes me want to claw it off. The oversized shirt doesn’t help. Because apparently nothing says forgettable quite like a terrible disguise and the kind of outfit I’d never wear if I had any say in the matter.

Humiliating. That’s the word for it.

Humiliating and exhausting and so far beneath the life I used to think I was building that it would almost be funny if it didn’t feel so awful.