The smell of eggs and toast drifted into Nolan’s room before the morning light fully had the chance to claim it. Crisp, buttery. Familiar. Marcus was cooking.
Like always.
It was something that grounded the day. No matter what shift he’d just returned from, no matter how many hours he’d been on his feet or how many bones he’d seen broken or bleeding, Marcus made breakfast. Always eggs. Sometimes bacon. Always just the right amount of salt. He moved through the kitchen like it was surgery, precise.
Nolan lay still, eyes half-lidded, face toward the wall. He heard every clink of the pan, every rhythmic scrape of the spatula. The quiet pop of the toaster. He counted them.
Marcus was back.
He didn’t hear him come in last night. No door opening. No footsteps. Just… gone. And now here he was, whistling low under his breath, like the night had been ordinary.
Nolan kept his breathing slow, his spine loose.
The notebook. The missing clothes. The empty closet. The call.
He hadn't told Marcus he’d been in his room.
He didn’t plan to. Not yet.
Let him act normal, Nolan thought. Let him think I don’t know.
He heard the soft creak of footsteps approach his room, the hallway floorboard that always groaned under weight. A quiet knock—two taps, nothing more.
Then the door pushed open.
Nolan didn’t move. He held his breath a moment, then exhaled just enough.
Marcus stood there. For a second, silent. Watching.
Nolan could feel it—that kind of stare you don’t need to see to recognize. Measuring. Checking. There was a pause, a long one, like Marcus was trying to decide if he should say something.
“Breakfast,” he said finally, voice casual. “Before it gets cold.”
No response.
Nolan forced his lips to part just slightly, deepened his breath, let his shoulder rise and fall.
“Right,” Marcus said after another beat. “Still playing dead.”
Then the soft whump of a pillow smacking into Nolan’s back.
He flinched, too slow. Too late.
“Gotcha,” Marcus said.
Nolan cracked open an eye, feigned grogginess. “What the hell?”
“You twitch like a guilty man.” Marcus was already walking away. “Breakfast in ten. If you’re not at the table, I’m feeding it to the neighbor’s cat.”
Nolan sat up, rubbing at his face with both hands, masking the shake in them.
He studied Marcus through the crack in the door. Calm, collected, moving down the hall in socks and that same dark gray shirt he always wore on days off. You’d never guess he’d vanished in the middle of the night.
And left his phone behind.
By the time Nolan made it to the kitchen, the table was set—plates out, mugs of coffee steaming, food perfectly portioned. Marcus was leaning against the counter, sipping from his cup, eyes on the small TV mounted in the corner. Morning news. Weather updates. A hit-and-run two towns over.
“Rough night?” Marcus asked, not looking over.
Nolan shrugged, grabbing toast. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Marcus finally glanced at him. “Nightmares?”
“Something like that.”
He didn’t ask more. Marcus never pressed when it came to dreams—probably because he had enough of his own. Enough memories he didn’t want waking.
They ate mostly in silence. The kind that brothers share—no pressure to speak, no awkwardness. But underneath, Nolan’s mind ticked on, clockwork and restless.
He watched Marcus closely now. The way he moved. The steadiness of his hands. The faint red mark on his wrist, like he’d been wearing something tight.
A watch?
Gloves?
He couldn’t tell.
After breakfast, Marcus washed the dishes without asking for help. Nolan sat at the table, pretending to scroll through his phone, though his mind was still back in that room—the empty hangers, the leather notebook, the call.
And Marcus, back home like nothing had happened.
“You working today?” Nolan asked.
“Nope. Got the day off.” Marcus dried his hands. “Thinking of heading out for a bit, though. Maybe hike the trail behind the reservoir.”
“You never hike.”
“Maybe I should start.”
“By yourself?”
Marcus looked over. “Don’t worry. I’ll text you every mile like an overprotective parent.”
Nolan forced a laugh. “Better.”
But inside, something coiled tighter.
“Alright,” Marcus said, grabbing keys from the hook. “Back in a couple hours. Don’t get murdered while I’m gone.”
“Can’t make any promises.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Nolan waited five minutes. Then ten.
Then he grabbed the envelope from under his bed, slid Marcus’s notebook into his backpack, and laced up his boots.
This time, he was going to follow.
He didn’t care if Marcus saw.
Something was unraveling, and Nolan was done pretending it wasn’t.