Page 10 of Joker

That makes two of us.

He jerks his chin deeper into the clubhouse. “Come on.”

No offer of food. No drink. No small talk.

I follow him down a short hall, every instinct I’ve got locking in tighter with each step. Whatever I expected when I left Bartsville this morning, it wasn’t this feeling building under my skin, like the world is leaning just slightly before a hard turn.

He stops outside a closed door and looks at me for a long second. “You get them back there without incident, and we’re square.”

Them.

There it is.

I don’t say anything, because Logan told me not to ask questions till I’m back and because suddenly I don’t trust my voice not to come out rough with irritation.

Grinder opens the door. And whatever shape I thought this day was taking changes all at once.

Because it isn’t a package waiting inside. It isn’t cash or intel or weapons.

It’s a woman. And a little girl.

The woman rises from a chair near the window the second I step in. She’s wearing a baseball cap low over a cheap-looking blonde wig that doesn’t sit quite right, oversized t-shirt swallowing her frame, one hand tight around the strap of a worn purse. The kid beside her can’t be more than three, small fingers wrapped in the woman’s jeans, huge eyes lifting to mine with the kind of quiet wariness that shouldn’t live in a child that little.

For one suspended second, nobody moves.

Then the woman looks at me fully, and even under all that disguise I can tell one thing immediately.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the polished, showy way some women know how to weaponize. Not even close. This is something sharper. Stranger. Amber eyes too big with exhaustion and fear, mouth pressed tight like she’s holding herself together by force, tension wound through every line of her body.

The little girl clings harder.

And I understand, with sudden brutal clarity, that whatever Logan sent me to pick up is not something.

It’s two someones.

I just don’t know yet that by the time I get them back to Bartsville, the shape of my whole damn life will already be shifting under my feet.

The room they put me in is supposed to feel safe.

It has one narrow window set too high to look out of without standing on the chair beneath it, a heavy deadbolt on the door, and walls painted a flat beige that probably looked neutral and clean when somebody picked it out but now only make the space feel temporary. There’s a small couch shoved against one wall, a television mounted in the corner, and a scarred wooden table with two mismatched chairs tucked beneath it. A basket of toys sits near the couch, and a folded blanket that smells faintly like detergent rests on the arm. It is, by every practical measure, a decent room. Secure. Quiet. Hidden enough that my father was willing to put his daughter and granddaughter in it while he figured out how to move us again.

None of that changes the fact that I feel like I am waiting to be transferred from one cage to another.

Lexi sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, completely absorbed in lining up crayons by color while an old cartoon plays quietly on the television. Every now and then she hums to herself, something tuneless and soft, and the sound keeps me from coming apart more than once. Her bunny is tucked beneath one arm, looking worn from being draggedeverywhere. She stops long enough to color a lopsided sun on a piece of paper, then glances up at me like she wants to make sure I’m still here before going right back to it.

I force a smile for her and get one in return.

That little expression is bright and trusting and undeserved, because I’m the reason we’re here. I’m the reason she has spent the last stretch of her life being shuttled from place to place with whispered instructions and careful routes and people lowering their voices every time they say her name. She should be worried about scraped knees and bedtime snacks, not whether Mommy looks scared when a door opens.

I sit on the edge of the couch with my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that went lukewarm half an hour ago and stare at nothing. My shoulders ache with exhaustion. My eyes burn. I cannot remember the last time I slept more than a couple hours at a time, and even those hours never feel like rest. My body has forgotten what that is. I exist in a constant state of bracing, like the world is always one breath away from impact.

I hate that.

I hate all of this.

I hate needing help. I hate being tucked away in my father’s clubhouse like something fragile and inconvenient. I hate that everyone around me is trying so hard not to act like I’m a problem, which only makes me feel more like one. More than anything, I hate that Cal has managed to make the world feel so small that even here, with locked doors and armed men between us and the road, I still can’t breathe all the way.