She left.
I watch the back of the police car, my whole body trembling from head to toe. I’m shutting down completely. I’m tired, wounded physically and mentally, bleeding—grieving, and yet the thought of never seeing Cora is killing me.
I can’t take it.
Through the glass shield, I watch the silhouette of thick, soft curls inside the cop car face forward toward the mountains. She hasn’t looked back once. I’m not sure if that hurts more than not hearing her say goodbye.
She didn’t choose me.
How could she?
Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me or died.
I did unforgivable things to get her here. I stole her time like a thief…and I would do it again. I would make the same selfish decisions because it brought her to me. I directed her car toward my ranch because the storm was getting too dangerous. I didn’t expect her to drive in it, so I made her detour to find shelter. I bought out her art at events because I wanted it all to myself.
Everything I’ve done has been for her.
I’ve been following her work for years, and when she stopped creating, I noticed. I wanted to know why, and I did everything I could to find out.
The night she found out her husband was having an affair with her best friend, I was there. We bumped shoulders when she was on her way back with champagne glasses. Again, I purchased it all. Her art helped heal parts of me. Second, she deserves all the love and support. She works hard for it. While her own trusted group was secretly bringing her down, I wanted to remind her to never quit and to keep believing in herself. I have the money. I have the time. I will always be what she needs me to be so she stays happy. If she can’t believe in herself right now, I’ll be the voice she needs to hear when she shuts down.
I just want to be here for her. Always.
The car makes the final turn heading down the road that leads off my property. They disappear into the woods, and all I see is snow.
The cabin is quieter and colder. Merelyn is dead. Georgia is in the hospital. And my sweetheart left.
I’m alone with my haunted past. Walls of spilled blood. And there’s no one who makes me feel the fraction of happiness that Coraline does. I can’t go an hour without knowing she’s okay. Does she really think I can withstand days? Weeks?
I head toward the cabinet where I store all of my alcohol. My leg hurts from wearing the prosthetic. She took one look at me, and the desire in her beautiful brown eyes didn’t falter. Not even for a second. No pity. No sadness. No apologies.
She is the only person I’ve bared all my darkness to, and in the end, she…left.
Sauntering into my bedroom, the door slowly creaks open after pushing it. I gave her the brown sketchbook so she could draw again. My heart skips a beat as I flip through the pages. Ifind the portrait of myself. My throat rolls. Fuck, she’s an amazing artist and the most talented, beautiful woman I’ve ever met. No one can compare to her. I hope that being here, she got her stardust back—the light she thought she lost.
Tearing the page from the book, I pin it to the wall on the side where she used to sleep.
I’ve been drinking heavilythese past few days. The burning taste of bourbon doesn’t quench my thirst for Coraline. It doesn’t compare to the burn I feel in my chest and eyes at the thought of her in harm’s way again.
The investigation is nearing an end.
Maya was responsible for Coraline’s torment. The letters, the texts, and the car crash. Liam had nothing to do with it. She acted alone.
Still, I have the urge to kill him next if he tries to manipulate her into giving him another chance. The thought alone has me spiraling deeper. I look at the reflection in the mirror and throw water on my face.
I have to find her. I know she asked me not to, but she doesn’t get it. She can’t ask that of me because it’s not a choice. Loving her is instinct. Protecting her is all I can think about.
The doorbell rings.
Who the fuck is it? I’m not in the mood for more press. Reporters have been standing outside my land, wanting to interview me. I’ve turned everyone down. I can already predict the headlines. Using my father’s name for clicks and money.The Sleepy Coldwater Serial Killer’s Son is Under Investigation Again.
When they don’t know shit about what transpired here, they just assume I’m a killer too.
The only people with access to my land are Georgia and Matt.
Is it her?
Did she come back? Fuck, I’m so damn bad for her.
