Page 48 of You Can Run

Trent didn’t slow down.

By the time he hit Galveston proper, his focus had sharpened even more. He drove the waterfront once, slow enough to look without drawing attention. Marinas, bars, restaurants, clusters of tourists drifting between them. But there were too many cars and too many places to disappear.

He kept going, making a slow second pass. This time he paid attention to the edges, the places people tucked things away. Parking structures. Side streets. The kinds of spots that didn’t advertise themselves.

Trent turned down a narrow access road and found the garage almost by accident—a concrete structure tucked just far enough back from the marina to be overlooked.

He slowed as he pulled in, the engine dropping to a low rumble. It was cooler inside and dimmer. His eyes adjusted quickly.

He didn’t rush it and drive straight through. Instead, he circled once, then again.

On the second loop, he saw it. A flash of red behind a concrete pillar.

Trent’s breath caught, sharp and sudden. The ’Cuda. Even half-hidden, it stood out. He rolled past without stopping, forcing himself not to look too long. His pulse surged, adrenaline snapping into place like a switch being flipped.

“Got you,” he murmured.

Miller slid out of the booth. “I need half an hour. Stay here. Eat something. Look like you belong.”

Dante frowned. “Half an hour's a long time to sit still.”

“Then don't sit still. Just don't do anything stupid.” Miller tipped his hat and disappeared into the crowd.

Dante didn't let go of her hand.

His grip tightened slightly, thumb resting over the ring like he'd forgotten it was there. He was staring at the table, tracking the wet outline left by Miller's glass, and Jessica could see him retreating into himself.

She watched him for a moment. “He's right.”

Dante didn't look up. “About what?”

“We can't sit here like two strangers sharing a booth. If anyone's paying attention, they'll see it.”

He let out a short breath. “So what, we start holding hands and smiling?”

“We're already holding hands,” she said.

His eyes dropped to their fingers, like he'd only just noticed. He didn't pull away.

Jessica shifted closer.

“We don't have to fake everything,” she said. “We just have to stop pretending we don't know each other.”

He leaned back, studying her, and whatever he was holding behind his expression was braced against something—not her, exactly, but what letting her in again would cost him.

“We knew each other two years ago,” he said. “That's not the same thing.”

She felt the words strike somewhere behind her ribs. “No,” she said. “It's not.”

The noise of the bar filled the silence between them—glasses, laughter, someone's kid shrieking on the deck outside. Normal sounds that had nothing to do with them.

“Then you left,” Dante said. “Not because you had to. Because you decided you were done.”

Jessica frowned. “That's not what happened.”

“It is.” His gaze was steady, unflinching. “You just made it sound better in your head.”

She felt the old anger flare—familiar, almost comforting in its sharpness. “I wanted a life, Dante. Not whatever that was. Not waking up every morning wondering which version of you I was going to get.”