65. Dancing in Darkness

CHAPTER 65

Dancing in Darkness

ILEANA

The initial adrenaline has long drained away, leaving behind exhaustion and gnawing fear. Every corner could hold a danger I never imagined back when my biggest worry was blending in. Every shadow could be a threat. This isn’t like avoiding attention at school, where invisibility was enough.

The rough brick scrapes against my back as I press into it, my breathing shallow as the footsteps come closer. Two male voices reach me through the pre-dawn air, their laughter grating against my nerves.

Don’t look. Don’t stop.

I hold my breath, each second stretching like an eternity as their voices pass, loud and careless, before fading into the distance. I force myself to wait … five seconds, then ten … until the silence returns. The drip of water, the far-off rush of traffic. My heart hammers in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Legs trembling, I peel myself off the wall. There’s no room for noise, no room for mistakes. My fingers stay curled tight around the money in my pocket—a crumpled stack of bills, small but vital. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. My safety. My future. My freedom.

But freedom doesn’t feel like I thought it would. It doesn’t feel like air or light or open spaces. It feels crushing. Like a void where nothing exists but the sound of my own breathing and the fear that every step is leading me back to the cage I’ve been trapped in.

I edge along the wall, moving through spaces that don’t feel safe anymore. The dark has turned on me, becoming too open and too full all at once. I jump at every sound. Skittering rats, creaking pipes, distant footsteps that might be nothing or might be everything.

Is this what you wanted?

James’s voice echoes in my mind, cold and accusing. I can’t think of him as my father now, not after the truth shattered every illusion of what I thought we were.

You wanted to run. You wanted freedom. Look at you now.

I swallow hard, pushing him away. He doesn’t own me anymore. I ran from him, from their lies, from every rule that suffocated me. I can’t let his voice be the thing that drags me back.

An engine growls nearby, and I freeze again, flattening myself against the wall. My breathing stops, my body screaming at me to run, but I can’t risk it. Headlights sweep across the edge of my sneakers, lingering for a beat too long before sliding past.

I don’t move until the sound fades. Then, I run.

Not far. Not fast. My legs feel like they might give out any second, every step sending a dull ache through my body. But I keep moving, because stopping feels like surrender.

Yesterday, I was in a motel room, my mother’s silent nod giving me permission to run. Now, I’m here. Hiding for different reasons, but still hiding. Always hiding.

When I finally reach the end of the alley, I pause, peering around the corner. The diner’s light is too bright against the cold gray dawn. A truck idles outside, steam hissing from its exhaust. I catch faint voices from inside. Truckers, maybe? Early risers who haven’t had enough sleep.

The smell hits me next. Coffee. Bacon. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, but I can’t move. I hover at the edge of the street, torn between hunger and the certainty that stepping inside might be a mistake I can’t undo.

I need food. I need rest. I need to think.

But I don’t belong in places like this. I’m not used to people, to strangers looking too long or asking too many questions. Every normal thing—every sound, every face—is overwhelming, too much all at once.

I can’t do this.

But what choice do I have?

I tug the hood lower over my head, forcing my feet to move. My hands are shaking when I push the door open, the bell chiming overhead. The sound makes me flinch. It’s too loud. I expect someone to turn and stare, to demand answers, to see me.

No one does.

I find the farthest empty booth, away from the windows and door, curling my shoulders inward, and wedging my backpack between me and the wall. The seat feels too big, the space around me too open. I can’t stop looking at the door, the windows, the other customers. A man at the counter stirs his coffee. A woman in the corner soothes her baby.

It’s normal. Ordinary. Too ordinary.

“Morning, sweetheart,” a voice says, and I jump. A waitress is standing beside me, notepad ready, her smile faint but kind. “What can I get you?”

The words stick in my throat. My fingers curl under the table, pressing into the sleeves of Wren’s hoodie.

“Just coffee.” My fingers brush against the money in my pocket, and I calculate how much I can afford, then force out the next words before I lose my nerve. “And maybe some toast.”

She gives me a look—a split second of something unreadable—but doesn’t ask questions. “Coming right up.”

I exhale shakily when she walks away, my gaze moving back to the window. The sky is starting to lighten, the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon.

Closing my eyes, I let the warmth of the diner seep into my bones.

I’m not safe. Not yet. But I’m here. And I’m holding on.

My pulse pounds in my ears, the noise of the diner too loud, too close . I wrap my hands around the coffee when it comes, the heat burning my palms but grounding me. I sip it slowly, feeling it burn its way down, bitter and strong, and force myself to eat the toast. Each bite is hard to swallow, but I don’t stop.

There’s a payphone near the door. It’s old, scratched, the kind of thing no one uses anymore. I stare at it, my mind pulling together a fragile, desperate thought.

Wren .

He’s out there. I know it. But hope alone won’t bring him to me. The roses and shoes were a starting point, breadcrumbs at best. Now I need to find a way to give him a direction, something solid he can chase.

What if he has a landline?

People list those, don’t they? If I could find internet access—somewhere public, somewhere quiet—I might be able to track him. A library, maybe, or an internet cafe. Wren’s house must be listed somewhere. It could be a waste of time, but it’s better than just waiting around to be found.

I push the plate away, my stomach full enough to dull the hunger but still aching. The sky outside is brighter. Daylight is a threat, the kind I can’t outrun.

I count out just enough to cover the coffee and toast, leaving a small tip that won’t raise questions, then hurry back outside.

One step at a time.

Wren will find me. I trust him to see the path I left, to follow the thread I’m desperately trying to hold on to.

Until then, I’ll keep running.