I take a brief look at my watch and realize my mental breakdown lasted for hours, and it’s nearing ten o’clock at night. But I know I need to dothis now, or I’ll never agree to help her. I’ll overthink more than I already have and cower away in my apartment, avoiding her as much as possible.
And strangely, I don’t want to avoid her. She’s been a constant light for weeks, and I don’t want that to disappear.
It takes me no time at all to reach her house. I only hesitate a moment before knocking on her door.
When she opens up the door, an oversized sweatshirt hangs off her shoulders and lounge shorts barely cover her ass.
“Oakley?”
“James. My first name is James, and I’d like to apologize and talk. I brought food.” I quickly hold up the paper bag.
Her eyes dart between mine and the bag before she holds the door open and steps to the side to let me inside.
My body sags with relief, and I know this is the right decision. No matter how hard it is for me to work through.
Chapter 7
Willow
James.
I always thought Oakley was his first name and he’s never told us any different, but now that I’ve learned the truth, I love it even more. It somehow suits him better than Oakley does.
I eyeball the paper bag one more time before going to sit at my small, dining room table, letting Oakley—James—follow me at his own pace. I’m not really sure how this is going to go.
When I came home, I knew I fucked it all up. Blindsiding him like that was not my intention, but I see where my mistake was. I don’t know how connected he is to the case, how he feels about it, and my assumption that he would just be okay to talk about it was self-centered. I was thinking of my own gain and not what it would potentially bring up for him. I’ve written enough shit dealing with the psyche of a person to know there are many facets, and it’s not a cut-and-dry thing. Especially if he was lead on the case. I can only imagine there is a reason he’s here and not chasing down the Tennison Strangler.
“I’m sorry,” he says again softly.
“Nothing to apologize for,” I offer, and I mean it.
He slides the sandwich over, and I waste no time tearing the bag open and seeing the chicken pesto panini he made for me. It’s my secondfavorite and my stomach lets out a loud growl, expressing its hunger. I may have eaten the one he sent home with me a few hours ago, but stress makes me hungry.
“Eat, please, while I explain.” I shove a bite in my mouth as he continues. “You … surprised me. I think that’s about the last thing I expected you to talk to me about, and I was caught off guard. I’ve done a lot to keep that time in my life hidden. It’s not something I like to dwell on.” He takes a deep breath, and I take another bite to keep the focus off of him. I don’t want him to stop talking.
“The last victim that I saw was the worst, and it broke me in a way I never thought would happen. I’ve run the whole gambit: therapists, ignoring the problem … you name it—I’ve done it. But it all came back to the fact that I couldn’t do my job anymore. I had failed for years to catch Tennison, and each new victim was like a gunshot to the gut. But that last one...” He visibly gulps, and I put my sandwich down, putting a hand on his arm.
“You don’t need to explain. I understand, and you don’t need to tell me all of this.” Do I want to know about the actual case? Hell yes. But I don’t need to know about how the case has affected him if it puts him in a bad headspace. And if talking about the case in general does that, then I’ll figure something else out because I can’t put him in that position.
It may mean pushing my book back, but I’m human and it’s not the end of the world, as much as I despise doing it. That’s a hang-up I would need to get over.
“The last one was the worst of all. There were things we kept out of the media because it was so horrific,” he continues, ignoring my words. Hell, this may be cathartic for him, so I’m letting him lead. “Two weeks after we found the victim, I found out he killed himself. Whatever Tennisonphysically did didn’t kill him, but whatever Tennison said affected him so much he didn’t want to live anymore.”
Fuck.No wonder he left. I’ve kept up with the case, but what I see is what the media releases. This is actual insight into the case, the people working the case where Alfred Tennison keeps kidnapping people and then releasing them forever changed. People always think about the victims in these cases, but no one ever thinks about the people who work the case. The people who see the damage day in and day out. The failure they feel when another victim is found, knowing they haven’t been able to stop it from happening.
My heart breaks for him and everything he’s been through.
Maybe I should scrap this whole idea. It’s selfish to ask him to do this for me. It’s selfish to ask him questions about protocols or how a murderer would act, when he’s just trying to live his life away from all of that.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. I don’t know what to say to make any of this better. I suspect nothing will ever make him feel better about any of it. He carries the weight of it all every day, and his no-nonsense personality suddenly makes all the more sense with this new information.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I just never expected my two lives to meet if that makes sense. Woodcroft kind of fucked things.” He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Because not only does Sheriff know, but now you as well.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” I quickly tell him.
“I know. If you were going to, you would have already.”
We both sit silently. I’m lost in thoughts about how to make this arrangement work without causing him a full-on mental breakdown.He‘s probably wondering why he came here in the first place and thinking this is all a terrible idea.
