Page 41

I told myself I was going back because my granny was sick… and that was the truth.

Her health had declined to the point where quick weekend visits and FaceTime calls weren’t enough anymore; she needed daily nursing care, and she needed her family close.

I was returning for her, not for Caspian, not to chase down six-year-old cold trails or demand answers from people who had lied to my face years ago… and definitely not because some foolish, broken piece of me still wondered if I might turn a corner and see him standing there under a streetlight.

If Caspian could have come back to us, I had to believe he would have by then. Six years had passed without a phone call, a sighting, a bank transaction, or even one careless mistake that suggested he was still out there somewhere. And with every year that went by, it became harder to hold on to any explanation that ended with him being alive… especially because this was Caspian.

He had too many people, too much money, too many connections, and too much love for his family to simply walk away from everything and disappear without a trace. Whatever else Caspian had been, he wasn’t the kind of man who would abandon the people he loved and start some new life while letting us wonder whether he was breathing.

So eventually, I had been forced to accept the possibility I spent years fighting against.

That Caspian might be dead.

Not knowing for certain was its own kind of torture. There had never been a body, never been proof, never been anyone who could tell me what happened after he left me that night. I had accepted his probable death as much as a woman could accept something nobody had ever actually proven… and time was running out on even that uncertainty.

The state of Delmore followed a seven-year presumption-of-death rule for people who disappeared without explanation and had no verified contact during that time. Once Caspian had been missing for seven full years, the state could legally declare him dead even if his remains were never found.

We were less than a year away from that.

The thought bothered me more than I liked admitting. For six years, there had still been this tiny space between missing and dead where hope could survive, no matter how unrealistic it had become. In another year, even the law would close that space for me.

I should’ve packed the picture first. Instead, I stood in the middle of the room with the wooden frame cold against my fingers, staring down at Caspian’s face like looking at him long enough might finally make the past rearrange itself into something that didn’t hurt so damn much.

It never did.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, the half-packed suitcase open beside me, and dragged my thumb across the glass.

The photo had been taken maybe three months before he disappeared, on a warm evening when we had driven out to the water just to get away from the noise of the city.

Caspian was standing behind me, one heavy arm locked around my waist and his chin resting against the crown of my head.

I was laughing at something ridiculous he had whispered in my ear right before the flash went off, eyes squeezed half-shut with pure joy, while he stared straight down the lens with that dark, serious expression he wore in damn near every picture he ever took.

Like smiling cost money he wasn’t willing to spend.

He had on all black, of course. A thick gold chain rested against his collarbone, his hairline was freshly cut, and that heavy watch he wore everywhere caught the light against his dark skin. I was tucked against his chest with my head tilted back, looking so completely at ease that nobody looking at us could doubt where I belonged.

I promised them I would come back the moment someone found him.

Nobody ever did.

Six years passed instead.

I laid the framed photograph facedown on the comforter and let out a slow breath.

For five years, I built a quiet, steady life in a place Caspian had never touched.

That had been intentional.

It took time—years of deliberate, painful effort—but eventually I learned how to function without checking my phone every five minutes expecting a call or text from him.

The nursing job I’d taken before leaving Hallowridge had become my steady employment for the last five years. Even though the twelve-hour shifts could wear me down to the bone, I genuinely loved what I did. I loved walking into someone’s worst, most terrifying day and knowing that, even if I couldn’t fix everything, I could make it a little less frightening for them.

Once my son was born, nursing stopped being just my career; it became one of the only things in my life that still made sense.

In a hospital, there was structure. Procedures had distinct steps, medications had precise dosages, and symptoms had physiological causes. Patients needed something tangible from me, and most of the time, I knew exactly what to do to keep them safe.

Grief wasn’t like that.