Her sniffles are evident on the other end, accompanied by small whimpers. “I had a horrible nightmare. I can’t shake it and I’m scared.”
“Do you need me?”
I don’t even hesitate to ask. If she needs me, I’m there.
There’s a catch in her breath, and then, “Yes.”
“Gimme fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m stumbling out of an Uber in front of her small bungalow, almost tripping over my feet as I jog clumsily up the stone walkway. My forehead falls against the turquoise door, and I start pounding my fist against it as I call out, “Cora, it’s me. Open up.”
I hear her footsteps on the other side, and when she flings the door open, I almost fall forward. I catch myself on the frame, drinking in the sight of her standing there in nothing but a braless, white tank top and cotton panties. But she doesn’t seem to give a shit that she’s half-naked in front of me, because she steps backwards to allow me inside, her eyes red and bloodshot, her feet as unsteady as mine. I close the door behind me, unable to keep my gaze from roving over the body I’ve come to know so well.
She doesn’t try to hide from me.
She knows I’ve seen her far more stripped down than this.
But it’s her eyes that do me in. They look glassy and lifeless and utterly haunted. “Corabelle…”
Her bottom lip quivers as we stare at each other, only a few feet apart. “I took sleeping pills. They’re supposed to help me pass out and forget, but… the nightmares, Dean. I can’t even… God, they’re so horrible.”
I start to move forward, her tears a magnet to my aching heart. “Come here.”
Cora doesn’t falter. She runs towards me, closing the gap between us and weaving her arms around my neck.
I don’t hesitate either. Like instinct, like it’s the only thing to do, I reach under her thighs and lift her up until she wraps her legs around my waist and buries her face into the crook of my neck. I start walking. I carry her through every darkened room, down the short hallway, and into her bedroom. We collapse onto the bed, still holding on, still desperate for that spark of warmth that only seems to ignite when we’re together.
We situate ourselves onto the queen-sized bed, and I only let go of her to pull the blankets up over our bodies, then my arms envelope her once again. She’s stoned on sleeping pills and I’m drunk off my ass, and we’re messy, damaged humans clinging to each other as we battle through the storm together, but it’s okay because we’re together.
Cora curls herself into me, close enough that I’m certain she can feel my heartbeat radiate right through her as she drifts to sleep. I wonder if she can feel how broken it is.
As the alcohol haze consumes me and I begin to fade out, I lean down to kiss her forehead, chasing away a rogue strand of hair with my fingers, then grazing them down her cheek, her neck, and the front of her chest.
I fall asleep with her heart pendant clutched in my hand.
Chapter Sixteen
Earl Timothy Hubbard.
I finally find the strength to research the case.
My case.
Our case.
It’s made international headlines, branding Earl with the nickname of The Matchmaker. He’ll be going down in history as a renowned serial killer after eleven bodies were discovered buried beneath his vast acreage. His victims were taken in pairs—male and female, with no blood relation or romantic connection. Earl had boxes and boxes of trophies, trinkets, and evidence stored in his attic, including Cora’s wallet and my leather jacket and car keys. He had journal entries devoted to each “couple”, though, none of the detailed contents have been released to the media. It’s been alleged that, based on the diaries discovered, Earl groomed his victims into developing feelings for one another—and when he felt like they had successfully fallen in love, he would murder them in cold blood. He got off on watching his victims mourn over their lover being tortured to death.
Sick fucking shit.
I think back to that fateful night, dwelling on every little thing I did wrong. Each wrong turn and fatal slip of the tongue.
“She your girl?”
Earl’s question seemed harmless at the time. I had no idea I’d be sealing our fate when I replied with a firm, “Hell, no.” I should have fucking lied, but getting under Cora’s skin was more important. Pissing her off was more fun.
I had no idea I put the nails in our goddamn coffins.
Turns out the guy was a run-of-the-mill sales clerk for a company that makes power tools. I had thought at first he was a dirty cop, but the flashing lights on his vehicle were only there to trick his victims into pulling over. You hear about this shit in crime show documentaries—you never even dream about it happening in real life.
I close out of the news articles as my skin heats up with prickling anxiety. I feel physically ill. I’m cursing myself for reading this crap—I’m clearly not ready, and the wounds are still too fresh. Too raw. And I sure as fuck hope that Cora isn’t reading any of it.
I lean back against my couch cushions, closing my eyes as I try to get a handle on my breathing. Two dogs were confiscated off the premises and are being held at animal control. One was a German Shepherd and the other was a Yorkie mix. Neither dogs looked threatening from the photographs. In fact, they looked terrified and malnourished—a far cry from the rabid beasts I’d pictured gnawing on our skeletons. I wonder what kind of horrors Earl subjected those poor animals to.
At least they had each other.
I grab my cell phone off the side table when it starts to vibrate, not overly excited to see Mandy’s name staring back at me. And that makes me feel even shittier than I already do.
Mandy: Can’t wait to see u later babe! Pick u up at 7 :) :)
Mandy is hosting her annual New Year’s Eve bash tonight. Usually, we host it at my townhouse because it’s bigger than her modest two-bedroom apartment, but given my current state of harrowing misery, we both agreed it would be better if she took care of the festivities this year. I honestly had no intention of going—ringing in the new year with a handle of vodka and my progressive rock playlist sounded far more appealing.
But Cora will be there.
I haven’t seen her since that confusing, hangover-infused post-Christmas morning, but we’ve talked on the phone every night since.
We don’t talk about how we woke up in each other’s arms, spooning, our legs impossibly entwined and my hand up her tank top.
The timeline of those early morning hours is hazy at best. I vaguely recall an Uber ride with a driver I was convinced was Kurt Cobain, and I kept asking for his autograph, followed by the smell of Cora’s daffodil hair quieting my demons and her warm breath against my neck lulling me to sleep. I remember a nightmare forcing me awake. And I remember eventually falling into the most comfortable sleep I’ve had in almost two months… despite the raging migraine I woke up to at almost noon the next day.
When Cora finally untangled herself from my arms and our eyes met, there was an unspoken promise that we would never speak of it again.
So, we haven’t.
And sometimes we don’t speak much at all—simply knowing the other one is on the opposite end of the line, breathing and alive, safe and warm, is a solace in itself.