Page 68 of Splintered Line
Clara finally meets my eyes, precise. “You don’t know that.”
“I know him,” I say, and the words lock.
The horn approaches. Air tightens. I stand before it sounds—waiting reads like hesitation—and step into the aisle.
Now there’s only one direction left.
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Chapter 18
Zoë
The tunnel is colder than the bowl, the kind of cold that feels like a warning instead of air. Above me, the crowd is still roaring—victory or loss, I can’t tell from here—but down in this concrete throat, the sound turns into a muffled animal. Distant. Impatient.
My boots scuff the painted floor. The white line that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sits under my toes like it’s daring me to pretend I can’t read.
I can.
I’m here anyway.
My pulse stays steady when I start. It fractures once I’ve been alone long enough to hear my own breathing echo back at me. A door bangs somewhere deeper in. Metal on metal. The scent hitsa beat later—ice, sweat, rubber, adrenaline. My stomach tightens like it recognizes him before he’s even here.
“Ma’am.”
A voice. Male. Official.
I turn my head slowly. A security guard stands at the mouth of the tunnel, arms crossed, eyes doing that sweep people do when they’re deciding if you’re worth the paperwork.
“You’re in a restricted area.”
“I’m on the public side,” I say, nodding toward the other end. “I’m right here.”
“That line is the rule.”
“It is when I’m invited.”
He blinks. “By who?”
I hold his stare. “Gio Rossi.”
He snorts like that’s supposed to mean nothing, but his eyes shift—quick, involuntary. Recognition. “Rossi’s in the locker room.”
“I know.”
“So you’re waiting.”
“Yes.”
He takes a step closer. “And if I tell you to leave?”
“I’ll leave,” I say, because I’m keeping this clean. Then, quieter, because I’m not stupid, “He’ll still come looking.”
Security’s mouth opens—ready to argue—then stops when another door slams and the air changes again, sharp with motion. His radio crackles.
“Keep the corridor clear—”
“I’m standing clear,” I cut in before the instruction turns into an order.
