Page 114 of Striking Range

“Fine,” I concede, slumping my shoulders. “Sorry, sir. I got carried away.”

Ash nods once. “Then go.”

“Sure. But if I’m never going to see Evie again, could I grab my things from his room? He borrowed some important school notes that I need.”

There are no school notes, but I’m banking on him forgetting that our classes are over and I have no need for mystery papers.

And I bluffed well, because Ash huffs in annoyance and waves a hand toward the stairs. “Top of the stairs on the right. You have five minutes.”

I thank him, scurrying up the steps and into what he has said is Everett’s room. And yeah, it must be, because it smells just like him.

Despite my time crunch, I take a moment to breathe it in. To let it settle into my bones, and imagine him and me in bed together, snuggled up and safe.

God, I hope he’s safe.

My eyes dart around the room, taking in his bed and his desk, the discarded clothes and the open closet. Half of his shirts are missing from their hangers, the top drawer of his dresser empty.

It truly does look like he ran away. Like he took his master plan and cut a few steps out, running straight toward the finish line.

It would be me that he cut out, me that he could do without so easily that he’d leave in such a rush. But no. It isn’t possible. I refuse to believe it until he’s saying it to my face once I find him, and I will find him.

I peek around his closet, his bed, the messy dresser. Nothing is giving me a hint or a signal, and just as I’m about to give up and hightail it out of here, I notice his laptop on the desk.

Why would he leave this? It seems important enough. Lifting the lid, the screen flickers on, revealing his email. Several brand names from ads are listed, even an email from our college talking about graduation schedules.

But at the very top, there is a singular message marked important.

Everett Young, your reservation at the OceanSide Inn has been confirmed. Your check-in time is 3 p.m. on December 7th, with the checkout time of 11 a.m. on December 9th. Thank you for your reservation!

An inn? He’s at a motel? Why would he—

Footsteps sound on the stairs, and I quickly snap a photo of the screen before slamming the laptop shut. Just as Ash barges in, I lean down and pick up a few stray papers and a hoodie.

“Sorry, I’m leaving now. I got my things.” I smile politely, pushing past him and into the hallway.

“Skylar,” Ash calls after me, and I stop halfway through my descent, but I don’t turn around. “Respect his decision. He does not love you.”

It’s almost comical. How would Ash know if he loves me or not? How—wait. Does this mean Ash knows?

Oh, fuck. I have to find Everett. I have to find him now.

I sprint from the house without another word, practically diving into Kelly’s passenger seat.

“What the hell?!” she shouts, peeling away from the curb on instinct alone.

I’m panting too hard to reply, clutching my chest as Ash’s words circle my brain. He does not love you. He does not love you. He does not love you.

It’s all wrong. It’s all so fucking wrong, and I’m unsure how to fix it.

“What the hell happened, Sky?” Henry grills me.

I may not know how to fix this, but I know where to start.

Holding my phone up to Kelly, I reply sternly, “We are driving to this inn. Right now.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Skylar Parish