“I’ll look after him,” I say. “Go.”
Gable gives me one last look, his expression tortured, and then he turns and walks away.
Chapter 22
Ella
6 MONTHS LATER
“Come on, dog,” I say, hands on my hips, head tilted. “You can’t just lie in bed forever.”
“Maybe he’s depressed.” Matilda sits cross-legged in front of Motor’s bed, stroking his head. The dog is curled up, brown eyes looking the same way they have the last six months—sad. “Come on, Motordog. Come for a walk with us.”
He remains still.
I’d hoped that Motor might perk up after a few months of living with me and my dad, but no such luck. There are moments he’s his old self, but rarely.
That night has changed the both of us.
In the six months since Asher died, my life has been turned upside down—and not just from the heartbreak of losing him, but the way the world reacted to the news. I’ve never been particularly famous for my books, but my small fame paired with being the chief of police’s daughter caught up in a murder-for-hire scandal hit the headlines hard. I was bombarded by the press and moved back to the suburbs with my dad just to get some peace and quiet.
And because I can’t face going back to the apartment.
Two years I’d lived there alone, three weeks I’d spent with Asher, but his presence is everywhere. I tried to go back a few weeks after everything happened, and I’d assumed I’d be okay. But the orchids Asher bought me had died, and for some reason, it hit me then that he’s really gone.
Even my writing can’t help me escape.
I’ve stopped working altogether, but luckily, my agent has been understanding, although that’s probably helped by all the press. My books are selling better than ever, especiallyCleaners.
I never heard from Gable again, not that I expected to. Sometimes I drive around hoping to spot him, but it’s pointless; he’s too smart to ever come back. His face, or the old photo they found of him, is plastered all over the news. The media have either pulled Asher and Gable apart, calling them criminals, low lives, and murderers—or praised them, telling the story of children failed by the system and forced into a life of crime to survive.
To me, Asher is just Asher. The guy I’d dated, the guy I’d fallen for, the guy with the annoying brother, who happened to tell a lie.
A really big fucking lie, Ella.
“I’m going back to the apartment on the way to the airport,” Matilda says. “Do you need me to do anything while I’m there?”
Matilda flew back from France when I told her what happened. It was originally only supposed to be for a few weeks, but now it’s been half a year, and I’m so grateful.
But now, she’s leaving again, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I shake my head. “I’m good. Just?—”
“Be careful.” Matilda smiles. “I know. I will be.”
I sit on the porch and wave goodbye as she drives away.
Pulling my coat tighter around myself, I flex my fingers to work some heat into them. Thanksgiving came and went a few days ago and it’s only getting colder, but I don’t go back inside. Instead, I round the porch to the garden and sit on the back steps. Motor wanders outside too and lies beside me, occasionally sighing.
“What do you need, pup?” I ask, and he rests his head on my lap. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
You’re talking to a dog, Ella.
Motor lifts his head and lets out a quiet, huffed bark. His attention fixes on the line of trees at the back of the yard, the heavy shrubbery blocking out the neighbor’s view of our home. I scan the trees, and the fence, but I can’t see anyone or anything.
Motor gets to his feet. Goose bumps ripple across my arms, and my heart lifts.
Why do I think it’s Asher? Why do I foolishly think he’s with me? Why does my mind go there when my heart can’t take it?
