Fox tried again, reaching for me and whispering soothing words that did nothing but strengthen my guilt.
Eventually I gave in from pure exhaustion. He wrapped his arm around me, tugging me against him until my cheek settled under his collarbone. He held me there, his thumb brushing softly over the curve of my shoulder.
“I’m okay,” he reiterated after a while, voice low and calm. “Whatever happened…it’s over. It’s not something you need to worry about.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted the warmth of his body and the weight of his words to be enough. But the ache in my chest didn’t go away. The questions didn’t stop circling in my head like buzzards over a carcass.
“You don’t have to protect me from your past,” I whispered.
He kissed the top of my head. “Maybe not. But I still want to.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I agreed, but because I didn’t know how to keep pressing without ruining this moment. I could feel the tension coiled in him. The worry in his voice for me.
His hand traced slow, rhythmic circles over my spine, lulling my body into stillness even if my thoughts wouldn’t follow.
We settled into silence. He pulled the sheet up around us, keeping me close as he settled back into the pillows.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway. “Yes. Are you?”
“I am.” He kissed the top of my head, inhaling deep and slow. His body finally relaxed.
After a while, his breathing grew heavier—slower. Sleep pulled him under as his soft snoring filled the room.
But I lay there wide awake, my stare fixed on nothing in particular. All I saw, running in my head in a loop, was Fox bleeding, in pain.
He’d been in the hospital. Had gotten surgery.
I knew he had scars, but I didn’t know that they were entirely my fault.
28
Skye
Thesoftamberlightof dawn seeped in around the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom. I hadn’t slept. Not even a little.
Fox’s breathing was deep and even beside me. His bare chest rose and fell in a rhythm that should’ve been calming. But I couldn’t settle. My thoughts wouldn’t stop racing—spiraling between the past and present, between Fox’s scar and the knot of dread sitting low in my stomach.
I was still staring at the ceiling with dry, aching eyes when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I jolted, barely catching it before it vibrated off the edge. The number flashed on my screen. It was Detective Whize. Slipping off the bed as carefully as I could, I tiptoed into the en suite bathroom. I shut the door softly behind me, heart thudding.
“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.
“It’s Whize.” His voice was rough with sleep, but alert. “I got the all-clear. You can come look through Jane Doe’s belongings. I got us permission to go through the evidence box.”
Adrenaline hit me like a shot of espresso. “Really?”
“I’ve been trying to push it through for days. But yeah, I’ve worked it all out. I thought maybe this afternoon—”
“I can come now,” I said too quickly, nervously shifting on my feet. “I want to come now.”
There was a beat of silence. “You sure? It’s early.”
“I’m already up,” I said. “I mean, if it’s possible to go now.”
He exhaled, like he understood more than he let on. “Okay. I know the evidence tech. Let me make a call and see if she’s willing to unlock the property room early. Meet me there in twenty?”
