Chapter 33

The highway stretched dark and empty toward Malibu, the hum of the car’s engine a low growl beneath the silence. Elena stared out the passenger window, her hand brushing the flat plane of her stomach where the baby—four months gone—once grew. The knife in her boot pressed against her calf, a cold comfort. Derek drove his grip tight on the wheel, knuckles white, the gun resting on his lap like a promise. The sea breeze slipped through a cracked window, sharp and salty, mocking the hollow inside her. “We do this my way,” he said, voice clipped, eyes on the road. “No risks.”