Page 28 of Joker

I’ve done long drives with brothers I’ve known half my life and still said less than I have with her over the last hour.

Not because she talks too much. Because when she does talk, she says just enough to make me want to hear the next thing.

That’s a problem.

She’s still wearing my sweatshirt. I told myself it was practical when I handed it over. She was shivering. End of story. But every time I catch the sleeves swallowed over her hands or see the dark fabric hanging too loose over her frame, something in me goes tight in a way I don’t appreciate. She looks too comfortable in it. Or maybe not comfortable exactly. More like she’s let herself sink into it despite meaning not to.

That shouldn’t matter. It definitely shouldn’t matter this much.

The cap is still pulled low over that cheap blonde wig. The disguise does what it’s supposed to do. Makes her blurrier. Less striking at a glance.

It just doesn’t work well enough to hide the fact that there’s a whole lot of woman under all that trying to disappear.

She’s gotten a little less careful with her answers as the miles wear on, though I can still feel the restraint in them. When I ask if she wants music, she tells me she doesn’t care. When I tell her that’s not an answer, she surprises me by admitting she likes older country better than newer stuff because the newer stuff all sounds like it’s trying too hard to be cool. That catches a laugh out of me before I can stop it, and she turns her head fast enough that I realize she didn’t expect that sound out of me.

I tell her she’s not wrong.

She tells me my road name is ridiculous.

I tell her hers probably isn’t much better.

She says she doesn’t have one. Then she looks out the window like she wishes she could pull that sentence back, and I leave it alone because there’s enough tension riding beside me already without poking at whatever nerves she’s trying to keep quiet.

Now the radio is low, turned down enough that it fills the truck without taking over the space, and she’s finally stopped sitting like she expects to bolt through the passenger door at any second. Not relaxed, because that word doesn’t belong anywherenear her yet, but less locked up than she was when we pulled off Louisiana property.

Less locked up is not the same as calm.

I notice the difference because I notice too much.

That’s always been true. It’s part of what keeps me breathing. And right now it means I’m picking up on every little thing she probably wishes I wouldn’t.

She watches every passing cop car. Not openly. She doesn’t turn in her seat or lean across the console to track them. But her shoulders change every time. Go tighter. Higher. Her breathing stalls for half a beat until the cruiser passes and disappears behind us. The first couple times I think maybe I imagined it. By the fourth, I know better.

She twists the ring finger on her left hand every few minutes.

There’s no ring there now, but the habit is. Her thumb slides over the spot like she still feels the metal. Like maybe her hand doesn’t know yet that it’s gone.

She startles at sudden noise. Not every noise. Not engines. Not trucks changing lanes. But sharp sounds, unexpected ones. A motorcycle roaring past us too fast. The crackle of static when the radio signal slips wrong for a second. Little things. Quick things. Things that shouldn’t hit that hard if your nerves haven’t been taught to go hunting for danger in stupid places.

And maybe the biggest one of all, she never fully relaxes. Not once. Not when the road is empty. Not when Lexi sleeps. Notwhen I tell her we’ve put enough distance behind us to breathe a little.

She tries. I can tell she tries. But some part of her stays pulled tight all the time, like she doesn’t trust what happens if she loosens her grip too much.

I don’t need her full story to know enough.

Connected ex. Chapter president father. Kid dragged into the middle of it. A wig. A night run. A woman who treats silence like a loaded weapon and safety like something temporary. That paints a pretty ugly picture all by itself.

Whatever happened, it wasn’t a couple screaming matches and a messy split. This has gone deeper than that. Meaner. Controlled enough that a woman like Raven learned how to make herself smaller instead of louder.

The thought pisses me off more than it should.

Probably because I can already see pieces of what the man did without hearing the full details, and I know exactly the kind of bastard who works that way. Not sloppy. Not explosive all the time. Smart enough to erode instead of just destroy. Smart enough to make the damage harder to explain.

I’ve known men like that. Most of them deserved worse than they got.

Beside me, Raven shifts in the seat and tucks her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt. “How much farther?”

“Few more hours.”