Page 91 of Fate, Interrupted

The lock clicks.

The engine turns over on the first try, the one small mercy the evening offers. I breathe a sigh of relief as the guys stroll down the alley, their swagger noticeable even in the dim light.

I let my heart rate decelerate and check the rearview mirror, making sure they haven’t changed their mind and decided to come back for round two.

My bag is on the passenger seat. My phone is in my bag.

I reach for it, the motion instinctive, and I find his name before I’ve thought about what I’m going to say. My thumb hovers over the call button for a moment. I can hear how it would land: two guys cornered me in the alley behind the shop and told me to stay away from you.

I close the phone.

I don’t want to be the woman making that call.

The uncomfortable thing about being independent is that there are moments when you can see clearly that if you’re not willing to pay the cost of independence, you risk becoming a woman who can’t manage her own life. That’s not me, and I can’t let two guys in an alley break me.

I scroll to Penny’s name. However, my sister is a different deal.

My thumb moves toward her number, but I shake my head and close the phone again.

Because Penny would want details. She’d have opinions that would cause her to circle back, eventually and inevitably, to I told you to be careful. With the concern of an older sister who feels somewhat responsible for her single sister walking into exactly the kind of trouble she warned her about.

Complete and utter horseshit, because rarely do I ever take Penny’s advice on any level of my life. It’s the whole dynamic of our sister relationship, and as much as I love her, she would be completely flummoxed if I suddenly jumped up and says, “Damn, Penny. You’re right. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

So, since I cannot sit in this car and hear a sisterly version of concern that sounds like I told you so, I put the phone back in my bag and put the car in reverse.

I drive. Not fast. Not with any urgency. I drive like I’m running a marathon, not trying to get anywhere quickly. I take the streets I know, and make turns on instinct because I’ve made them enough times that the car could probably drive itself

As I get closer to my neighborhood, the streetlights come on in sequence, white pools of light bathing the street. I think about the tall one saying this ends badly for you with a certainty that leaves no room for any other possibility.

I think about the two possible calls sitting in my phone.

I have a story now that starts with two guys cornered me. That story isn’t mine. It belongs to a version of Norah who is a victim of two men in an alley rather than a person making choices.

I’ve made my choice. And I should feel frightened. Or angry. Or at least shaken. Sharing it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still my story, the fear, the triumph. The loneliness. Because that’s what I feel tonight.

I drive through the streetlights making pools of amber on the pavement.

Chapter twenty-four

Silas

No one speaks for the first few seconds after I enter the warehouse.

The silence speaks volumes. The Waldon pack knows why they’re here. They’re waiting to see who speaks first. I’ve been in enough rooms like this that my body knows exactly how to prepare.

The front corner of the warehouse has been cleared. A rolling rack of pressed shirts shoved against the far wall, one of the long sorting tables pushed aside to open the floor. The overhead lights are too bright for the hour, flattening everything they touch, making the concrete look pale and unforgiving. The smell of detergent and warm steam still hangs in the air from the workday, but the sharper scent of adrenaline threads through it now. Sweat. Tension. The metallic edge that rises in rooms where no one has come to leave satisfied.

My father stands with his back half-turned to the dock doors, one hand resting lightly on the displaced table. He isn’t imposing in the loud sense. Elias has never needed volume for that. He’s dressed the same way he always is at the warehouse, dark button-down, sleeves rolled neatly, no jacket. There’s nothing about him that signals this is anything other than part of the day’s business. It’s not dressed up as a threat or something dramatic.

I’ve seen this my entire life.

Tonight it looks different.

Or maybe I’m looking at it differently, which produces the same result.

To his right stands Logan, shoulders squared, expression giving nothing away. Two of our men stand farther back, positioned where they can close space quickly if they need to. They look relaxed in the way wolves do when they are not relaxed: weight balanced, attention spread wide, every small movement in the room already clocked.

Across from them stands the other pack.