My head spun as I tried to make sense of it. She wouldn’t put me through this hell—right? But how well did I really know her when it came down to it? The woman I loved—or thought I loved—was a Clarke, and those people would do anything if it suited them. Hell, I’d seen what they were capable of. They’d burn down the world if it kept them on top.
“You don’t think she’s in the grave?” I pressed, needing to hear him say it outright.
“No. And I’m shocked you never checked,” he replied, his tone almost accusatory. “That’s the first thing I would’ve done. Proves a point too.”
I stared at him. His words sank in like a weight—one that pulled me down so fast I almost felt dizzy. Was I that blind? So damn naïve I’d just accepted she was gone, never even thought to question it? I’d spent so much time trying to drown out the pain, numbing myself with whatever I could, telling myself she was gone forever ... and it hadn’t crossed my mind once to dig deeper. I’d let grief take over—let it cloud my judgment. But if there was even a chance she wasn’t there ...
“Proves a point?” I echoed, trying to grasp the full meaning behind his words.
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “If her body isn’t in there, it means you’re not hallucinating. It means she’s still alive, and the Clarkes are playing you. You’re going to hell anyway—might as well go to the grave and find out for yourself.”
His words hit me like a one-two punch: anger, then hope. A brutal mix of both. It was as if someone had reached in and ripped my heart right out, then handed it back to me, beating and raw. If she wasn’t in that grave ... if she was still alive ... All this time I’d been in hell, she’d been out there somewhere, alive. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or fury, so hot it burned right through my chest.
But then came the doubt—that voice in the back of my mind. What if she was there? What if I went, opened that grave, and found her? I’d have to face the cold, brutal truth all over again. Everything I’d done to survive, all the pain and emptiness, thenights I’d spent with nothing but her ghost ... what if it was all real?
And even worse, what if she wasn’t there? If I’d been drowning in grief, in all those damn memories, all while she was out there somewhere, alive and hidden away. What kind of game had I been played in? And if the Clarkes were involved ... did she even want to be found?
My hands tightened into fists, the anger boiling up again. All that suffering, all those sleepless nights, the opium, the hallucinations ... had it all been for nothing? Had she left me to burn in hell just because she could?
I could feel Marco’s eyes on me, watching, waiting for my response. But I didn’t say a word. I just pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, breaking the silence that had settled between us. Without another glance his way, I turned and walked out of the room, each step echoing down the hallway as I made my way toward the exit.
Somewhere out there, either buried six feet under or hidden away in some twisted game, was the answer to a question I wasn’t sure I wanted resolved.
But I had to know.
The night air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside. I looked up at the dark sky, the stars scattered like tiny pinpricks in the blackness. Somewhere out there, the truth was waiting. And whatever I found—body or no body—I knew one thing for certain:
Nothing would be the same after this.
CHAPTER 20
ROSALIE
He was here.
I couldfeelhim.
Not a physical sensation but a cold dread that snaked its way up my spine and pooled in the pit of my stomach. My hand, slick with sweat, pressed against the cool, rough plaster of the apartment hallway.
When did he get out?
Was I too paranoid?
My trembling legs throbbed with the aftereffects of my frantic sprint home, threatening to give way at any moment. I dug my heels into the plush gray carpet as I listened to the sound of my throat closing. Every frantic inhale felt like sandpaper scraping against my raw insides. My breath continued to hitch—a result of the ragged gasps I’d taken on the desperate run.
Placing my hand against my chest, I began to breathe in through my nose then out through my mouth. Ever since I found out who Max really was, I’d had these panic attacks often. Often enough to learn calming techniques from cheesy self-help blogs. Inhale through the nose—a long, slow count of four—then exhale through the mouth. I did that six more times, until I could finally catch my breath.
My purse rested loosely in my hand, the worn leather cool against my clammy skin. Inside, hidden among forgotten receipts and lip-gloss containers, was the pepper spray Dad had insisted on, along with the small but sturdy knife he’d given me, and a small checkbook in his name, since there was nothing in mine.
Taking a shaky step, I tiptoed to the edge of the landing and peered down the stairwell to see if anyone had followed me.
How long had he been out? When was he released? Why hadn’t my father told me? Panic gnawed at me again. The questions hammered in my head.
My hand trembled as I dug my phone out of my pocket. This was against the rules, but I had to do it anyway. With a frantic swipe, I dialed my father’s number, willing it to connect on the first ring. The silence stretched on, each unanswered ring exacerbating the growing dread in my chest.
Then the automated chime of the answering machine pierced my ear.
“Oh gosh,” I choked out, the words catching in my dry throat. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t part of the plan. Everything I’d worked for, the foundations I’d tried to build a new life on, felt like sand slipping through my fingers.
