I didn't see Jace all weekend.
No texts. No glances in the hallways on Monday. Just absence — the kind you feel before you even realize someone's gone.
But that didn't stop the questions. If anything, it made them worse.
The photo. The note. My mom's lie.
And now Jace, disappearing like he knew what came next would be too heavy to carry.
By Tuesday, I'd had enough.
I found him behind the gym, exactly where Layla said he sometimes went when he wanted to be "left the hell alone." And sure enough, there he was — hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring at nothing.
"You're avoiding me," I said.
He didn't turn around. "I told you not to get involved."
"And I ignored you," I shot back. "So you might as well stop wasting time and just tell me what you know."
Finally, he turned.
There was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Not coldness, not distance — fear. Real, raw fear.
"You don't get it," he said, voice low. "This isn't just some family drama. There are people who would rather let the past stay buried. People who'd do anything to keep it that way."
"Someone already tried," I said, pulling the note from my pocket and holding it out. "This was in my locker."
He took it slowly, reading it twice. His jaw clenched.
"Looks like they know you're involved now too."
"I've been involved since the day I got here," I said. "I just didn't realize it."
We stood in silence for a second. The wind kicked up dust around our shoes.
Then he looked at me — really looked at me — and said something I didn't expect.
"My dad didn't leave."
"What?"
He swallowed hard. "Everyone says he ran off. That he was in trouble. But he didn't. He was scared, yeah — but he stayed because of someone. Because he had something to protect."
I stared at him. "What was he protecting?"
Jace's eyes darkened.
"Me."