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“Wynnie, darling, I’m asking you with all seriousness since you’ve been in these kinds of places before: Is it safe to lie down? Will I have to get medicated shampoo? Will I have to shave my head?”

I smile at his genuine concern, calculating the risk of sleep versus lice. I reach over and run my fingers through his short black hair, still soft and clean-feeling.

“Probably. Better say goodbye to your luscious locks while you can.”

He bats my hand away, trying to smooth his hair back into place with damaged vanity.

“I’ll never forgive you if I end up bald. My hair is one of my best features.”

“Along with your humility, I’d guess.”

A beat of peace passes, the weight settling back over us. He stands, grabbing the keys from the desk, the metal jingling softly in his hands.

“I’m going to go out and grab some supplies. Food, some clothes for you, toiletries… maybe something to make this place smell better. I think it’s probably best if you stay here.”

I bring my head down in agreement, trying not to show how relieved I am at the prospect of being alone for a while.

“Be careful,” I warn. It’s possibly the first time I’ve felt concerned for him.

“Always am, darling.”

He caresses my chin with the back of his hand, the touch gentle and caring.

Once he leaves, I turn the lock behind him, the dull click sounding a seal on my solitude. I let myself fall back on the mattress, not caring about questionable stains or the springs that dig into my back. It’s uncomfortable enough to question whether sleep is worth it, but I don’t care; I need to be horizontal and allow my guard to drop.

The emptiness feels different when I’m alone, more honest. Without Preston here to distract me, I can’t avoid the never-ending train of thoughts.

I fumble with the ancient remote until the TV stutters to life; grey and white dots cover the screen until settling on the local news. I flip through channels absently, looking for something mindless to occupy me, until… I see a face that makes my blood freeze.

Robert.

My fingers hover over the channel button while my world tilts sideways.

“Robert A. Grant,” The news anchor’s voice says, smooth and emotionless. “Son of deceased multi-millionaire and former owner of Grant Guard Money Security, Richard Grant, was found dead early this morning in a rural Harris home.”

My mouth goes dry. I shoot up, perched in the middle of the bed, legs crossed beneath me as I lock on the screen. My driver’s license photo pops up in the top corner.

“Authorities are now searching for this woman, Wynnie N. Jackson, age twenty-seven, in connection with Grant’s death. According to police, Jackson lured Grant to her residence. When he arrived, she turned on him, brutally murdering him. Further details remain private as the investigation continues.”

I’ve been keeping the air trapped inside of me, but I don’t even realize it until my ribs begin to ache. The words blare like fire alarms in my ears, each syllable marking a permanent place in my memory.

“Jackson is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Officials are urging the public not to approach, and to contact law enforcement immediately if she’s spotted.”

Armed and dangerous?

Brutally murdered?

They make me sound completely evil—a person with no conscience. Knots form in my gut as I try to reconcile the woman in the photo with the story they told. But that’s me, that’s exactly who I am.

I feel something bitter and hot rise: anger, grief, and guilt, all of it tangled together until it’s too heavy to hold. My head buzzes like the static on the screen.

This is too much.

I try my hardest to focus on breathing. Why can’t I breathe?

Any and all feelings of concern or liking for Preston suddenly drain out of me.

This is all his fault.