As I carefully set the book back down, a stack of papers slides loose, spilling across the floor in a soft flutter.
“Shit.” I crouch, heart hammering. The last thing I need is for him to wake up and think I’m snooping through his stuff.I reach for the first page, meaning to stack them neatly again, when I see it.
My name in bold letters.
I freeze momentarily before flipping to the next page. My address. Another lists details about my senior year admission to Christmas High. My breath quickens as I flip through them, each one slicing a little deeper.It’s all about me.
What the?—?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DAVE
The bed’scold when I reach over. For a second, I think maybe she just rolled to the other side, but the sheets are empty, smooth. My chest tightens. There’s a brief moment where I have to question whether the entire night was a dream. Shaking my head, I push up on an elbow, blinking at the faint glow of the dying fire down the hall.
“Char?”
When there’s no answer, I climb out of bed, pulling on my pants and Henley, padding barefoot through the house. The place feels too still. The fire’s nothing but embers now, her wineglass still sitting on the coffee table. My stomach twists. I check the guest room. The bathroom. Even the porch. Nothing. She’s gone. But where?
And why?
I make it to my office and sink into my chair, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Did she go for a walk? At this hour? It’s still dark as pitch out there. Doesn’t she realize what’s out in these woods? Coyotes. Maybe even worse. I push to stand. Then I see it.
The papers.
“Fuck!”
They’re scattered across the rug, exactly where she must’ve found them. My heart sinks into my gut.
“Dammit, Char. Did you actually try to leave on foot?” I find myself hoping she’s craftier than I imagined and managed to steal my keys or hot-wire my car.
This thought goes up in smoke as I grab my keys from the entry table and tear out of the house toward my Toyota Tundra. My headlights slice through the darkness as I fly down the drive. Where couldshe have gone? It’s not like she can call an Uber out here. There’s one gas station and two churches in this town. No cabs, no buses.
I fumble for my phone, thumb hovering over Matt’s number. Maybe she called Ellie. Maybe she’s already safe there.
But then I see something up ahead. A small figure cowering along the shoulder of the road, bundled in only that cable-knit sweater, arms crossed over her chest as if attempting to fight off the bitter chill, hair whipping in the wind. Suddenly, it’s like déjà vu. That morning after our one night together. The jogger I passed wearing a hoodie. It had been her then too.
My heart slams against my ribs as I slow the truck, rolling to a stop beside her.
“Char! Get in the car.”
She doesn’t even look at me. “No!”
“It’s the middle of the damn night!”
“Don’t care. I’d rather walk!”
“Baby, please!” I beg.
She stops dead in her tracks. “Don’t call me that! You have no right.”
Throwing my hands in the air in surrender, I blurt, “I’m sorry!” I quickly take hold of the steering wheel before anything else can happen tonight.
“I’ll walk all the way home if I have to. Even if it takes days.”
I slam my truck into park and get out, boots crunching against gravel. “You’ll have frostbite before sunrise. And that’s if the coyotes don’t find you first.” As if on cue, a long, low howl echoes through the trees.
She startles, her eyes bouncing around the surrounding trees in alarm.
