Page 97 of Only Be Mine

“Seth?” I said too loudly, my voice already breaking. “It’s me.”

“Cate?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m home. Trevor has my car.”

There was a pause, brief but weighted. “You still at the townhouse?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come get you.”

I hesitated. Trevor wouldn’t like this. He never liked Seth. But Trevor wasn’t here, and John…

“Okay,” I said.

I waited on the step, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around myself. The night had turned colder than I expected, my bare arms prickling, but I didn’t go back inside. I didn’t want to miss him.

Headlights appeared at the end of the street, drifting closer like cautious eyes. I stood as a dark Ford pickup rolled to the curb.

“Get in,” Seth said, pushing the passenger door open.

I barely recognized him without the Mustang. Ten years ago, that car had been everything - red paint, loud engine, reckless confidence.

I climbed in. The warmth hit me all at once.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally, because silence felt like it might swallow me whole, I asked, “What happened to the Mustang?”

“Sold it.”

That was all he said.

The city slid past in streaks - streetlights and dark storefronts, wet pavement reflecting the world back like a warped mirror. Every red light felt like cruelty. Every green felt like permission to fall apart faster.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, faintly, like my body was trying to warn me.

The police station rose up out of the dark like a block of concrete meant to hold people’s worst nights.

Seth parked hard. The truck rocked. He cut the engine, and the sudden quiet made my ears ring.

Before he could open his door, I blurted, “Is he dead?”

Seth froze, one hand on the handle. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.

“You don’t know,” I repeated, too sharp, too loud in the small space.

His grip shifted. “They won’t tell me anything. They called me, and they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

I stared at him, at the shape of his profile in the dash lights. He looked older than I remembered, like the last decade had carved him down instead of building him up. A shadow of stubble. Lines at his mouth that weren’t there before. His hair wasn’t the same, either - shorter, not the carefree mess John used to tease him about.

“How did you even…” My breath hitched. “Why did they call you?”

Seth’s throat worked. “Because there was a number. Because I’m… I’m on something. Somewhere.” He swallowed. “Because when someone doesn’t have family, the police start calling whoever’s left.”