I finally end at my desk. I clear a space with my forearm and lay out a spiral notebook. I start writing everything I know. I cross-reference Cade’s last known location with the fire article, and my stomach clenches at how realistic it would be for it to be him.
Do the authorities know that? Is Cade going to run? Am I too late?
I stare at the burnt remains of the house, just as a notification flickers across the screen.
Molly: Can we meet Tues? I really want to get this essay done.
The rational part of me knows this is good. The more time I spend with her, the more chances I have to get close to Bradford, which would allow for me to maybe catch a glimpse or ask a question…
But I can’t read the message without my stomach flipping over on itself.
Still, I type a reply, fingers stiff.
Me: Sure. Same time and place?
Molly: Yes! Thank you. You’re the best.
I set the phone down and flip open my computer. I do my best to focus. I try to rebuild the timeline in my head as I openup a notes page. But the images of last night keep flickering in, strobing over everything.
I can’t get past the heat of Bradford’s hands, the way his body caged mine, the pain and pleasure tangled together in a knot I can’t freaking unravel. I press my fingers to my neck, where he squeezed, and grit my teeth.
Fuck him. You can’t get attached. He means nothing. This is about Cade.
I’m stronger than this. I have to be.
I make my way to the browser, and search for details on the homicide and fire in Ridgecrest. A local news channel video is right at the top, and I click it open.
“An investigation into last night’s structure fire continues. The site is still off-limits, but sources say the blaze was likely arson…”
The screen shows B-roll of the fire—flames chewing through a wooden roof, black smoke roiling into the night, police tape flapping in the wind. For a second, my vision tunnels, the edges of the room fuzzing out. The reporter’s voice is a mosquito whine, every word a needle.
And I can’t stop my fucking memories.
The flashbacks come in quick, unclear pulses, and my stomach rolls. The smell of burning, the heat on my face, and Cade murmuring that I’m safe now, that no one isevergoing to hurt us again.
But they still tried.
I can’t breathe. My chest locks up, and I shove myself back from the desk, staggering to the bathroom and shoulder-checking the door. I drop to my knees on the tile and retch, but nothing comes up. My body shakes, cold sweat pouring down my neck and back. I grip the rim of the sink, knuckles white, and force myself to inhale.
It takes forever. But finally, the panic backs off. I rinse my mouth, then splash my face with water, over and over until I feel human. I wipe myself dry using my sleeve, spit in the sink, and go back to the desk. The video is still going, now interviewing a neighbor about the fire.
“They say it was deliberate,” the neighbor says. “Somebody wanted to cover their tracks. I even heard rumors the body was mutilated.”
I shut my eyes. For a second, I let myself imagine that I’m not hearing the words that confirm it’s Cade. That I’m just a lone teacher with a student, trying to win a writing contest, and this isjustthe news.
But the world doesn’t let me live in fantasy for long. It never has.
Chapter 23
Bradford
“There are stillno persons of interests being named in the fire involving a couple in Ridgecrest…”
I turn off the TV, and stand to my feet, my stomach feeling sick. Iknowthere is a person of interest when it comes to this case. They just don’t want to name him…yet.
My head spins with the consequences looming on the horizon, and the timer is already running downward. All it takes is for Chief Wilkerson to point the finger in my direction, and Cade have another bad fucking day, and we’re all going down in one way or another.
Maybe that professor will press charges against me. Maybe they’ll search the farm and find the bodies. Maybe Turner will never get better. Maybe Cade will snap and so something even worse. Maybe I’ll fuck Jenna again.
