Page 51 of The Exit Strategy

And none of it belongs to me anymore.

I should have burned these a long time ago. I should put them away now. Looking at these is the architectural equivalent of pressing on a bruise—it serves no purpose except to confirm the injury still exists.

But Nana Mae said to stop hiding, and the truth is, the story of this file isn’t the only thing I’m hiding. If I accept that she’s entered my biggest lie into competition, I won’t be able to hide it any longer.

Fifty thousand dollars.

That’s what sits at the top of the prize sheet, printed in bold under the Meridian letterhead. Fifty thousand dollars for first place, paid out within fifteen days of the ceremony.

It’s enough to cover what Devin took from The Haven.

Nana Mae doesn’t know about Devin—not the full scope of it, anyway. There’s no way she knew we’d need this prize money. She entered me to beat her nemesis, Paula Van Holten, to fulfill an ache that’s never left her. She also doesn’t know I’ve fought with myself about this contest for months, knowing The Haven might need the money but unable to risk engaging with a company that made millions off my designs without their knowledge.

But no matter how I look at it, the prize money from Natalie’s company could undo the damage Devin has caused.

One stolen thing paying for another.

Stop hiding, Nana Mae’s note says.

If only she knew what that would actually cost me.

My attention snags on my mother’s drafting compass. She was an architect too, though I only know that through Nana Mae’s memories and a few inanimate objects. I don’t usually let myself think about her. Tonight I’m thinking about her, which means I’ve stopped keeping my own rules.

I glance at the bottom drawer—the locked one—the one that contains the blueprints with JM sketched into the cornerstone of every detail.

I’m designing that home based on the way Junie moves through space—wide hallways because she reads while she walks, a south-facing kitchen because she gravitates toward the sun’s warmth, even if she doesn’t realize it. A reading nook tucked behind the stairs because she always loves spaces that feel hidden but aren’t.

I glance back at the application Nana Mae submitted. The timeline to withdraw is…

Wait. I glance down at my watch, then click through apps on my phone until I find the calendar. What the actual fuck?

The timeline to withdraw was midnight. Midnight last fucking Friday.

My empty stomach twists, and my ribs sink into my lungs, constricting air until my vision blurs.

Stop hiding.

Stop fucking hiding. She didn’t give me a choice.

I stand abruptly, tossing the archival tube and grabbing my pencil.

I can’t think when my mind is like this. I can’t focus on anything but the heartbeat in my ears, so I do the one thing, the only thing I can do in my sleep—I design.

I rework the library design on autopilot. Adjusting sight lines and recalculating angles until finally, the rest of the world falls away.

This is the only time my brain goes quiet anymore. Not in my bed, or the porch, or even the ocean that’s a hundred yards away. When my life implodes, I turn to my drafting table. Pencil on vellum. The act of creating an idea and making it real.

This is where I lose track of time. My pencil moves precisely, my breathing slows, and the constant low-grade hum of anxiety that’s been my baseline since Boston dims to something manageable.

Which is why I don’t hear her enter.

“I knocked. Twice.”

I jolt so hard my pencil skids across the vellum, ruining a line I’d been refining for longer than I care to admit. My body is rigid before my brain catches up—Junie’s in my doorway. The one I always lock but forgot to tonight because Nana Mae’s note rattled something loose and I was in too deep to notice.

Junie’s standing three feet inside my private office, and I swivel my head, searching for any signs of the life I’mdesigning for her without her knowledge. Or worse, the truth I’ve kept hidden from her so she’d always have a safe place to land.

It’s hidden. Right?