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He shook his head. “No, but I think I should. Maybe write it down. Do their families know what happened? Jackie said a lot of it is still a mystery.”

“I’m not sure and she’s right,” I confirmed, letting go of his hand. “The two of us are the only ones who know anything.”

It was quiet between us for a moment. The air settled softly around us as streams of sunlight managed to sneak through the gaps in the curtains. Dust danced in the light, silent in its movements.

“Will you help?” Silas asked quietly. “Write it all down, so people know?”

I smiled and nodded. “That’s what I do for work, you know? Take stories and help deliver them to the right people. I would love to help. But… can you help me, too? Tell me all you know about that man, about the place we were in?”

He nodded. “You’ve got a deal.”

Lexington

Iwatched as Goldie flipped through the pages of her notebook steadily, reviewing the writing she had jotted down in the pages months ago. She had asked for it back after our meeting with Silas, wanting to dive back into the case headfirst. While I wanted to find the man who did this to her, I also wanted to protect her from it all—especially her mental well-being while looking into it.

A part of me wanted to snatch her notebook away, toss it in the fire, and have her focus on anything else. But I couldn’t. She needed to do this: to dive into the details of the case, what happened to her, and find the man responsible.

This new version of Goldie was strange for me. There were pieces of her old self that I would catch glimpses of: her snark and witty comebacks, her scrutinizing gaze, and her jaw-dropping intellect when it came to this work. They were pieces I had missed more than I had realized, but they were the pieces that made her her.

There were also pieces born from that dungeon and the subsequent months of lost memories: her worried glances, her insatiable need to check door locks, and her reluctance to smile were just a few. She was also still trying to make sense of her mind. She had explained once that her memories were all there, but it sometimes felt like she was sifting through a bag of them, unable to grasp the right one. She knew it was there; she even knew what the memory was about, but it took a moment to take hold of it. Still, she hadn’t had another seizure, her headaches were lessening each day, and the puzzle that was her mind was slowly being put back together.

I still wasn’t sure where I fit into it all, but it wasn’t my place to push her. She was working through a myriad of emotions and experiences, and adding my insecure self into the mix wasn’t necessary. I knew I loved her. I knew she was the first person I had ever truly loved in this way, and that was enough for me to bide my time until the time was right. Because I knew we had all the time in the world left.

Her hair was longer now, and I was impressed with the speed at which it grew. It brushed just past her jawline and hit the nape of her neck. I could tell she was insecure about it, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. Sitting here on her bed with her legs crossed underneath her, wearing my hoodie, she was the most stunning woman who had ever existed. The way her skin glowed golden in the dim light of the lamp and her dark eyes scanned the page was entrancing, and the soft pout of her lips was addicting. Everything about her was addicting.

Her slender fingers brushed along her words slowly. Since being found, she had put back on much of the weight she had lost, and it was good to see her healthy again—both physically and mentally.

She glanced at me quickly and went back to the page, but was surprised to see me looking at her, and her eyes darted back to me, wide in shock and confusion. “Everything okay?”

I nodded. I was leaning in the doorway of her room, contemplating whether I could just start the night in her bed or if she would prefer it to be when she had a nightmare.

Well, she could kick me out if she wanted to. I sauntered to the bed, practically jumping into the spot next to her. She jostled at the motion and graced me with one of her smiles that could sate me for a lifetime. “What are we reading?”

She huffed a laugh and went back to her notebook. “Just trying to make sense of my own notes.”

“Do you not remember writing it?”

She shrugged. “I do and I don’t. The memories of that day are still muddy; I think it’s from the first hit,” she explained, and I held back the urge to react to her words, not wanting her to see how her pain affected me. Not because I wanted to hide it from her, but because she didn’t need to bear anything else. “I know the names came from Brooks. They were his suspects. I know Old Man Baker—”

“Peter,” I interrupted, and she looked at me, confused. “Peter Baker. His first name is Peter.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “I know Peter told me this line, but even then, it didn’t make sense.”

“Do you think it was him?” I asked quietly.

She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tapping along the leather binding of the notebook as she thought.

“I don’t think so,” she finally explained. “I have no reason, but even in my messed-up memories, he wasn’t threatening when he said it to me. It was like he was warning me of what was to come.”

“He knew you were going to be taken?” I clarified.

“I don’t know, but I can’t rule it out.”

“Who do you think it was?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I never saw him, never heard him talk—I couldn’t even hear him breathe. He was average height, average weight.” She paused for a moment, her gaze turning to me, and she seemed almost confused. “He smelled weird.”

“What do you mean, weird?”