“Let me go first,” Matt offers, his weapon already drawn.
“No,” I insist. “I don’t think anyone is here anymore.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” he says as he pushes past me. He surveys the kitchen first, then heads into the living room as I stay planted at the front door. I wait and watch, breathing hard and slow. All of the furniture has been ripped to shreds, most likely done by a knife. There’s cotton everywhere. All of my mother’s decorations are broken. The Christmas wreaths are cut into pieces. The twinkling lights are unplugged and stomped on. I can tell by the way they’re crushed. My entire cabin smells of gasoline.
“Whoever did this was going to burn the house to the ground,” Matt states, clearly just as pissed as I am. He heads down the hallways, leaving me alone. “Even with the Sleepy Coldwater Serial Killer copycat locked up, this town still wants to torture you.” He shakes his head, pissed off.
Whoever was in my house tore it apart and made sure to remind me of why I live alone up in these mountains, far away from everyone. The massive portrait I have of a deployment overseas, standing with my team, has been written on with red paint or marker. I’m not sure.
Murderer.
Someone from Sleepy Coldwater did this. Maya is dead. So, the only suspects are the civilians who live here. This town will never forget what my father did, and they will never let me live in peace.
TWO MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER 38
GAVIN
Grief. Another day going through this alone.
In the end, everyone dies. We’re a blip in time; our small molecular imprint in this world comes and goes so quickly. Too quickly. One minute, we’re here, surviving, and then the next, we’re corpses. In my forty years of life, I’ve realized that life is too short to spend it in fear. Everyone has it all wrong about what it means to be rich. It’s not about money, material things, or how big your house is. Being wealthy is to wake up next to the love of your life. To be rich is to sleep next to the one who makes you smile just by sitting next to them. To find someone who will protect you and make you feel safe is a blessing. Not everyone gets to find their soulmate. That’s what being rich means to me. It’s in the memories, showing up for each other, and encouragement when times get rough.
She made me laugh.
She made me see the world differently.
She made me see that life is still worth living.
I stare at my phone screen. Drunk. Numb. Yearning and craving to hear her voice again. Coraline doesn’t want anything to do with me. It fucking hurts. Sitting on my porch, I stare atthe sun setting on the March sky. The air is still cold, but I can’t feel it on my flesh. I can’t feel anything but dread since she left me.
Spring is around the corner, one of my favorite times of the year, because it means more animals will shed their antlers.
A rock forms in my throat.
Coraline.
I want to go shed hunting, go back to my regular scheduled programming as a lonely broken man with a routine that keeps me sane…but I can’t do it anymore. Not when I don’t have her next to me to help hold them while I collect and search. I want to hear about her next art piece.
I’m in love.
This is the first time I’ve fallen in love.
It’s love because even though I’m angry, hurt, and broken, I still want her to be happy. I’m still grateful for everything we shared, and her absence has left a hole inside me that nothing and no one will fill.
It was fast for me because I had known about her a long time before she knew me.
Coraline fell in love with me, too. I know she did. I felt it.
Holding a bottle of whiskey, I stare at the amber liquid still in my all-black suit, which I wore from visiting Merelyn’s resting place today. When we buried her, Matt and Georgia were the only ones in attendance besides me. I wished things were different. I wanted Coraline there. Merelyn fell in love with her, too.
I feel like I’m going insane without her. I have to grieve Merelyn and also go through Cora slipping through my fingers.
The only time I see her now is in my dreams. So I drink, and I drink until I pass out just so I can see her—every day since she’s left. Before I know what I’m doing, I dial her number without looking it up, because I have it memorized. I want to say things I didn’t get to say when she was here.
I hope she didn’t change numbers.
It rings and rings while my heart pumps out of my tight chest. What the hell do I do when she answers? I’m already losing my train of thought. The whole world is blurry. I’m too drunk for this. I didn’t think it through. My knee bounces anxiously, my fingers sweating, making my cell phone slippery.
