The next, I’m the epicenter of whatever this is.
And what terrifies me most is the look in her eyes—like she’s seeing not just a stranger, but a ghost she’s spent years trying to forget.
Finally, I find my voice, though it feels like gravel in my throat.
"Elle," I say, carefully. "Please… talk to me. What’s going on?"
She stops pacing just long enough to look at me, and for the first time, I realize she’s not just upset. She’s devastated. And whatever it is, it’s tied to me.
Her eyes narrow, her nostrils flare, she’s on the verge of breaking. I can see it. But the tears don’t come. Not yet. Something’s holding them back.
Is it anger?
Hurt?
Fear?
I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s aimed squarely at me.
"Cal," she begins, her voice unsteady. "Jackson. Whatever your name is... I need to ask you something. And I need you to tell me the truth."
"Okay," I say without hesitation, my stomach knotting. "What is it?"
"What did you do for a living before woodworking?"
"I was a cop."
The color drains from her face. She sways slightly, and for a second, I think she might collapse. But she doesn't. She plants her feet like she's bracing for impact.
Her voice is tight. "What is that tattoo covering?"
The question blindsides me. I glance down at my arm. "A bite mark," I say quietly. “From years ago.”
She nods, looks away, then back at me. A tear slips down her cheek. Then another. And another.
"What's your sister’s name?" she asks, her voice low, barely above a whisper.
"My sister?" I repeat, thrown by the question. "Beth. Beth Callahan."
"Beth as in Elizabeth," she says. "Elizabeth Hazel. Right?"
I freeze. My chest tightens. "How... how do you know that?"
But I already know. I feel the blood rush from my head as everything begins to slide into place—the scar, the name, the way she looked at me when I saidCallahan.
"Elle—"
But she’s already turning, already walking away. The door swings shut behind her with a hard, echoing thud that feels a hell of a lot like the beginning of the end.
Chapter 7
Danielle
“Elle!” Cal’s voice echoes behind me, sharp in the still evening air.
I don't listen. My house is maybe a hundred feet away, just across the stretch of grass and gravel between us—but like in a nightmare, every step feels heavy, like I’m moving in slow motion. The front door stays maddeningly far away and out of reach.
“Elle!” he calls again, louder now, urgency bleeding into panic.
