---
Elara barely slept.
When she did drift off, her dreams bled into nightmares: faceless men in masks, their hands clutching the journal, their whispers sounding like her father's voice calling her name. She woke before dawn, her shirt damp with sweat, her fingers curled tightly around the leather-bound book as if she'd been defending it in her sleep.
She sat up in the dim spare room, blinking through the shadows. Cass was snoring softly beside her on the mattress, one arm flung over his face, completely at ease. Elara envied his ability to shut the world out, to slip into unconsciousness like nothing had happened. For her, sleep was a battlefield.
And she couldn't let it happen again.
She couldn't just lie awake in terror while Miles—smiling, charming Miles—walked freely in his own apartment, playing both sides. She remembered his voice through the door: "…yeah, they're here. I told you. But the journal—"
The words had burrowed into her skull like splinters.
This wasn't just about Cass being too trusting anymore. This was about survival.
She needed proof. Something Cass couldn't ignore, something that would rip the blindfold from his eyes.
So she began to plan.
---
The kitchen was quiet when she padded in later that morning, the air stale with the smell of last night's bacon grease. Miles wasn't up yet. She poured herself coffee, black and bitter, and let her thoughts churn.
The journal sat on the table in front of her. It looked small and fragile in the morning light, its cracked leather edges worn soft by years of handling. But it was more dangerous than any weapon. And Miles wanted it.
That was the key.
If she wanted to catch him, she had to use the journal as bait.
She traced a finger over the cover, thinking. If she left it out—unguarded, but not too obvious—Miles wouldn't be able to resist. He'd touch it, move it, maybe even try to take it. And if she set things up right, Cass would see it happen.
But there was risk. Too much risk. If Miles realized she was baiting him, he might get violent. He might call whoever he'd been speaking to on the phone. He might strike first.
Still, Elara couldn't shake the certainty forming in her chest: they couldn't stay here much longer. Every minute with Miles was a coin flip between safety and betrayal.
Cass shuffled in around midmorning, his hair still damp from the shower, his eyes half-lidded. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," she said flatly.
He poured himself cereal and sat opposite her. For a while, they ate in silence. Elara kept her gaze on the journal, her mind already rehearsing the trap.
Finally, she said, "Cass… do you ever think maybe we're trusting the wrong people?"
He blinked at her, spoon halfway to his mouth. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She hesitated, careful not to push too hard too fast. "I mean, showing up here. Depending on Miles. Maybe it wasn't the best idea."
Cass frowned. "He's my best friend, Lara. He's had my back since forever. I know you don't like him, but he's not going to screw us over."
Her pulse ticked faster. She wanted to shout he already has!—but no. Not yet. If she accused him now, Cass would only dig in deeper, defend Miles more fiercely.
So she leaned back, keeping her voice neutral. "I just… think we should be careful."
Cass shook his head, muttering something about her paranoia. But she noticed the tiny flicker of doubt in his eyes, the kind he tried to mask with bravado. It was enough.
---
That afternoon, she put her plan into motion.
While Cass was in the shower again, Elara slipped into the living room. She placed the journal on the coffee table—open to a page of sketches their father had made, coordinates scrawled in the margins. It was genuine enough to tempt Miles, but not revealing everything. The real clue pages she tucked safely beneath the mattress in the spare room.
Then she pulled the curtains half-closed, creating just enough shadow to suggest carelessness, as though she'd been reading and forgotten to hide it.
She sat in the armchair across the room, pretending to flip through a battered magazine she'd found under the couch. Her heart beat like a drum.
And she waited.
---
Miles emerged from his room not long after, yawning, stretching like a cat. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair a mess, but his eyes were sharp—always sharper than he let on.
"Morning, again," he said with a lazy grin.
Elara forced a thin smile, kept her eyes on the magazine.
He ambled toward the kitchen, but his gaze snagged on the journal. Just for a second. His steps slowed.
Elara's throat tightened.
He lingered at the counter, pouring himself coffee, but she saw the way he kept glancing back toward the table. Like a moth circling a flame.
Finally, as if unable to resist, he drifted closer.
"You're still carrying that old thing around, huh?" he said casually, nodding toward the journal.
Elara shrugged, not looking up. "Family heirloom."
He chuckled. "Doesn't look like much."
"Maybe it isn't." She forced her voice steady. "Just memories."
He nodded, but his hand twitched. He wanted to touch it.
Elara flipped another page of the magazine, pretending not to notice, every nerve in her body screaming.
Then—
Miles reached out. His fingers brushed the journal's cover, tentative at first, then bolder. He flipped the page, scanned the sketches, his brows furrowing.
Her pulse spiked.
That was the moment Cass walked back into the room.
"What are you doing?" Cass's voice cut sharp, breaking the silence.
Miles snapped his head up. His hand jerked off the journal like it was hot iron. "Nothing, man. Just—just looking."
Cass's eyes darted to Elara, then back to Miles. Confusion clouded his face. "That's not yours."
Miles lifted his palms in surrender. "Relax. I wasn't stealing it. I was just curious."
But Elara saw the flicker—guilt, irritation—flash across his features before he masked it.
Cass frowned deeper. "You shouldn't touch it."
The room tightened, air heavy with unspoken tension. Elara held her breath, waiting for Cass to connect the dots, to see what she saw.
But then Miles laughed, breaking the moment. "Come on, man. You think I'd rob my best friend? Get real."
Cass hesitated. The wall of loyalty, of years of friendship, still stood strong. But cracks had begun to show.
---
That night, Elara pushed harder.
In the spare room, as Cass settled onto the mattress, she whispered, "You saw him. He went straight for it."
Cass rubbed his temples. "Yeah, but—you left it out, Lara. What did you expect?"
"I expected him to respect boundaries," she snapped. "Not paw through Dad's journal like it's nothing."
Cass sighed. "You're making too much of this."
"No," she hissed, leaning closer. "I heard him on the phone last night. He was talking about us. About the journal. Cass, he's not safe."
Cass's head jerked toward her, eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"
Her chest tightened. She'd revealed too much. But there was no turning back.
"I heard him," she whispered fiercely. "He said, 'yeah, they're here. But the journal—' He's telling someone about us. About this. He's playing you, Cass."
Silence. Heavy. Crushing.
Cass stared at her, disbelief warring with something else in his eyes. "You're sure?"
"Yes," she said, voice breaking. "I wouldn't lie about this."
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. "Damn it, Lara…"
For the first time, he looked uncertain. Torn. The unwavering faith in Miles faltered.
But before Elara could press further, footsteps sounded in the hall. Both of them froze.
Miles's voice drifted through the door. "You two still awake?"
Elara's stomach dropped.
Cass shot her a warning look, pressing a finger to his lips. Neither of them answered.
After a moment, the footsteps retreated. A door clicked shut.
Elara exhaled shakily, her body trembling.
The trap had worked—partially. Cass had seen enough to doubt. But not enough to sever ties completely.
They needed more.
And Elara knew Miles would slip again. She just had to be ready.
---
The night stretched long, restless. Elara lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She replayed the moment Miles touched the journal, the guilty flicker in his eyes. She replayed the phone call, the laughter, the way he smoothed things over too easily.
Piece by piece, the mask was cracking.
But the most dangerous thing about masks was how well they fit—until they didn't.
And soon, very soon, Miles Bennett's would fall.
---