The Replay (Boys of Richland #3)

3. Cecilia

cecilia

. . .

The quiet street feels like it’s closing in. I keep walking, arms wrapped tightly around myself. The night breeze cuts through my dress like it’s nothing, the chill settling deep into my bones. I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye—a stray cat maybe, or just a trick of the light—but the unease inside me only digs deeper. It’s getting dark and it’s getting dark fast.

Twenty minutes into my walk, I know I made a mistake. My feet drag across the pavement, the stillness amplifying everything: my own thoughts, the echo of Gabriel’s face when his mom had asked him, flat out, what he was doing there. The look of utter defeat that followed.

It broke something inside him, and I watched it happen like a front-row spectator. His mom, wrapped up in her new family, didn’t even seem to care that he existed anymore. How do you deal with that? I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be rejected by a parent so completely. To be replaced . And Gabriel? God, he’s amazing. He’s kind and thoughtful. He always puts the people he cares about first, and he’s loyal to a fault. Hell, even pissed off at me, he still made sure to call Felix to give me a ride home. And he waited. He didn’t want to talk to me, but he stuck around long enough for Felix to show up so I wasn’t left alone. Who doesn’t want someone like that in their life?

“A crazy person,” I mutter under my breath.

The street is eerily silent, and my footsteps sound too loud against the pavement. The rustling leaves only add to the tension building under my skin. I wrap my arms tighter, trying to ward off the chill creeping down my spine, when my ears pick up the low rumble of an approaching engine.

I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of a blacked-out Audi Q8 creeping up behind me, its windows too dark to see through. My brows knit together. I don’t recognize it, and a vehicle like that stands out in a neighborhood like this. We’re nice, but not Audi Q8 nice.

I shrug it off, but a minute later, the SUV is still there, hovering a few car lengths back, moving with me. My stomach clenches. I step up onto the edge of someone’s lawn—no sidewalks on this part of the street—and slow my steps, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

What the hell?

My heart skips a beat, a chill creeping up the back of my neck. The car is still following, still keeping pace with me. Maybe they’re looking for a house number? That’s all it is. No reason to freak out.

I glance over my shoulder again. No, something’s off. The car slows, deliberately matching my pace. My chest tightens, my breaths coming a little quicker now. Shit. Don’t freak out. Austin’s in jail. You have a restraining order against Parken and Gregroy. You’re fine.

I try to speed up, my feet slapping against the pavement faster now, sandals scraping the ground. My pulse quickens with every second the car doesn’t pass. Better safe than sorry, I think, any second now they’ll pull into a driveway, and I’ll feel stupid for even thinking this.

But they don’t. My hands tremble, heart pounding in my ears. The car is still there.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I fumble for my phone, the device slipping through my sweaty fingers. I let out a frustrated, “Fuck!” as it hits the pavement with a crack. Bending down to grab it, the Audi suddenly surges ahead, swerving in front of me, cutting me off.

Panic seizes my chest. My pulse pounds like a drumbeat in my head as I clutch my phone, eyes glued to the car. I take a step back. Then another.

I’m not that far from home. Two blocks. Maybe three. I could make it. My shoes aren’t meant for running, but who cares? I could make it if I have to. No one’s going to grab you, Cecilia. Don’t be ridiculous.

But fear wraps around me, suffocating.

The rear door swings open, and I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid. A woman steps out, her bright red heels hitting the pavement first, followed by long, elegant legs. She’s tall, blonde, and immaculately dressed in a red pencil skirt and matching blazer. Not exactly the image of a kidnapper.

Relief trickles in, but it doesn’t last long. There’s something off in the way she looks at me—intense, sharp, like she’s calculating something. I shift on my feet, suddenly unsure.

“Cecilia Russo?” Her voice is like ice, slicing through the night air.

I blink, trying to make sense of what’s happening. I don’t respond at first, too busy scanning her face, her posture. She’s older, closer to my mom’s age. Something about her feels familiar, but I can’t place it.

She arches a brow, clearly annoyed by my silence. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I stammer, my throat dry as I meet her gaze. Where do I know her from?

The woman gives a curt nod, lips pulling into a tight smile. “Jaymin Holt,” she says. Holt. The name hits like a punch to the gut.

Austin’s mother.

I take a step back, instinctively. “What do you want?” My voice shakes.

“To talk about Austin,” she says smoothly, like that explains everything. As if hearing his name doesn’t make my skin crawl.

Panic pulses under my skin. I should have run. But now I’m stuck, frozen in place as she takes a step closer.

“I won’t take much of your time,” she continues, gesturing to the open door of the SUV. “Please.”

There’s something in her tone, like saying ‘please’ costs her something. My instincts scream at me to get away, but I force myself to stay still. If I remember correctly, she’s a lawyer. She isn’t going to assault me or do anything illegal, right? Right.

I just need to look at this logically. She wants to talk, but I don’t have to listen to her. I can say no and walk away. Everyone here is reasonable.

Then the driver’s door opens, and my heart races all over again. A man steps out—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that demands attention. His eyes are cold, assessing, as they land on me. He moves with the kind of careful, precise motions I’ve only seen from fighters or military types.

He nods once at Jaymin and strides around the SUV, coming to stand beside her.

“Get in the car, Ms. Russo,” he says, voice low and authoritative. It’s not a suggestion.

I swallow hard. “I think I’m good here, thanks.”

His expression doesn’t change. “That would be a mistake.”

I take a small step back, pulse racing. My brain screams at me to run, but every instinct tells me I won’t get far. Not with the way he’s watching me, poised to react.

“Mrs. Holt is being patient,” the driver says. “But my patience is running thin. I suggest you accept her invitation.”

I glance at Jaymin, whose smile has all but vanished. “I just want to talk,” she says, her tone brittle. “Ten minutes. Then you can be on your way.”

I weigh my options, chewing on my lip.

“You won’t like what happens if you try to run,” the driver says.

“Are you threatening me?” I ask. My eyes flick from him to Jaymin.

“She’s not,” the driver says. “But if that’s what you need in order to comply, then sure.” He shrugs. “I guess I am.”

Alright then. Glad we cleared that up.

Guess I don’t really have a lot of options here. I take a shaky breath and force myself to step forward. “Ten minutes,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

I slide into the backseat, the cool leather chilling my skin. Jaymin follows, settling in beside me, her eyes sharp and unwavering. The driver gets in, and with a quiet click , the doors lock.

My heart stutters as I grip my phone tight, praying this conversation is just that—a conversation.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I tell her. “My attorney wouldn’t want me talking to you.”

The SUV pulls away from the curb, and I try not to think about all those lovely little murder statistics about women who are taken to second locations. I should really cut back on the number of true crime episodes I watch.

“We’re just going to have a friendly little chat,” Jaymin tells me. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

I disagree but keep my thoughts to myself. Despite saying she wants to talk, Jaymin sits quietly beside me.

My skin itches the longer we go without speaking, but I refuse to be the one to break the silence. She’s the one who wanted this little meet and greet. Not me.

Shifting in her seat, Jaymin crosses one elegant leg over the other before finally turning to face me. “I’d like for the two of us to get our stories straight. I think you’ll find it beneficial if we’re both on the same page.”

Déjà vu washes over me, and it’s like I’m there. Back in that room. Scared and confused as I take in my torn clothes and the bruises on my skin. Then Austin opens the door and says almost the exact same thing. Let’s get our stories straight.

No single sentence has ever triggered me more.