He stared at my writing. Jaw worked like he wanted to argue, wanted to protest, wanted to refuse.
But he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make his case with anything but gestures and written words that took too long.
Finally, he nodded. Once. Reluctant agreement.
Relief flooded through me. Too much relief. Too much investment in keeping him here when I should want him gone.
Should want the danger out of my apartment. The fugitive away. The complication removed from my life.
Except the thought of him walking out created a hollow ache I couldn’t name.
Xavier wrote again: Then what?
The question hung between us. Heavy. Unanswerable.
Then what? He leaves. Disappears into winter streets with police hunting him and no memory of who he is or where to go. Alone. Voiceless. Vulnerable.
And I go back to my empty apartment and pretend the last three days didn’t happen. Pretend I didn’t cross every line. Pretend I didn’t feel more alive, more present, more necessary than I had in four years.
Pretend to lose him doesn’t matter.
“I don’t know,” admitted. “But we’ve some time to figure it out.”
Long enough to not think about after. About the moment he walks away and takes something vital with him.
Chapter 9
Clare
The lock fought me like a personal vendetta. Damn it!
Stubborn tumblers, ancient mechanism, metal so cold it burned through my gloves. Twenty-four hours since the detective’s visit, twenty-four hours of watching police swarm the neighborhood then gradually shift their search grid elsewhere. Far enough that I’d risked slipping out during a lull, buying Xavier clothes from a charity shop three blocks over. Coat, boots, backpack. Everything he’d need to walk out of my life.
Brilliant plan, Clare. Get him mobile so he can leave faster.
The key scraped against frozen metal. My breath fogged in the alley darkness, mixing with Xavier’s steady exhale beside me. He stood close, positioned between me and the street like a human shield.
Another scrape. The tumbler shifted, caught, resisted.
Come on, you bastard.
Xavier’s palm settled on my shoulder. Light pressure. Questioning.
“I’m fine. Just... stubborn lock.” Voice too tight. “Give me a second.”
His fingers brushed my collarbone through my coat. Once. Steady.
The tumbler clicked.
Relief mixed with fresh terror as I pushed the entrance open. Slipped inside. Xavier followed, pulling it shut with controlled precision.
Both froze. Listening.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No sirens.
Reached for the light switch.
Harsh fluorescent buzz filled the space. Yellowed institutional light revealed exactly what I’d described: converted storage unit masquerading as a clinic, concrete floors, sparse equipment decades old, no windows.
