Dean lies down and pulls me with him, and I spread the blanket over both of us as I snuggle into the crest of his arm. My legs intertwine with his, my hair haloing his chest and shoulder, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head.
Peace.
This is what peace feels like.
And as our bodies relax and melt together, I realize I don’t need him to sing to me or massage my wrist, or offer any kind of escape from the dark cloud that hovers over me.
He is enough.
His heartbeat is all I need.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dean: “Umm… ?”
I wake up the next morning with a fluffy dog tail in my face as my phone vibrates on the nightstand beside me. I stare at the text message that just came through, nipping the inside of my bottom lip with my teeth.
Me: Good morning :)
Dean: Where are you?
Me: Home. I had to let the dogs out.
Dean: Ok. You should have woken me up to say goodbye.
I swallow, inhaling a heavy breath.
Me: You looked so cute and peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you :)
A few minutes pass by without a reply, so I start scrolling through Facebook as I roll onto my side. Jude scoots over to the opposite pillow, and I prop my head up on one hand, idly skimming my newsfeed.
Dean: You could have left a note or something. I wasn’t expecting to wake up alone.
I blink slow, my eyes staying closed while I string together my response. Guilt cinches my gut as I recall waking up in a panic, half naked and entangled with Dean Asher.
I booked it.
Me: I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to stay out so late and I panicked. I didn’t mean to worry you.
Dean: Panicked because of the dogs or panicked because of me?
Shit.
I turn off my phone and roll back over, my fingers running through my hair as I fill my cheeks with anxious breaths. I want to tell him that everything feels so perfect, so right, when we are wandering through the dark nights with our walls down.
But in the cold light of day, reality pinches me, waking me up like a bucket of ice water. The walls go back up—brick by brick, layer by layer, protecting me and keeping me safe.
However, walls are manmade. They crack and they crumble.
They are destined to fall.
And I’m terrified to see who is still clawing their way through the rubble when the dust settles… and who has just given up.
“Man escapes abductor after twenty-two years in captivity”
The headline stops my breath as I sit with my parents around the dinner table, distracting myself with my phone.
“The partially nude man discovered on the side of Abbington Road near Pembrooke has been identified as thirty-year-old Oliver Lynch, the Libertyville boy who went missing on the Fourth of July almost twenty-two years ago.”
The article is accompanied by a photo of a man lying shirtless on the side of a snowy street in the fetal position, covered in blood.
My heart clenches.
Twenty-two years.
Twenty-two years.
“Cora, sweetheart? Are you okay? You’ve hardly touched your food.”
I swallow, glancing up at my mother with wide eyes. Bile sticks to my throat as I try to form words. “Did you see this news story about the missing boy who was found after twenty-two years?”
My parents pierce me with empathetic eyes and my father clears his throat. “We saw that on the news this morning.”
“How awful,” my mother adds, scooping peas onto her fork. “It’s a miracle that boy survived.”
I blink.
Is it, though?
I can’t help but wonder if he wishes he never survived at all. I was only gone for three weeks, and I still can’t shake the nightmares and haunting memories. I tried to take my own life.
How can he ever move past his trauma and have a normal existence?
“Excuse me,” I mutter, pushing myself away from the table and making a hasty retreat upstairs to the guest bedroom. I curl up under the covers and screenshot the article, sending it to Dean. I never replied to his last text and it hovers between us like so many other unanswered questions and frightening unknowns.
He reads it right away, but I don’t get a response for another ten minutes.
Dean: That’s fucked. Really puts things in perspective.
Me: To him, we would be the lucky ones :(
Another few minutes pass before my phone zings again.
Dean: Speaking of….. Did you see the new development in our case?
I freeze as I stare at his question, my body going numb. I haven’t seen anything—in fact, I generally scroll right past all posts and articles that have the name ‘Earl’ attached to them.
Me: No…
Only five seconds pass when a screenshot comes through, the picture slowly loading. I zoom in to read the headline:
“Victim of Earl Timothy Hubbard, also known as ‘The Matchmaker’, comes forward”
I read it again.
Then again.
My insides churn with disbelief. There’s another victim out there… alive? I don’t even read the corresponding article. I call Dean immediately.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Oh, my God.” My hand flies up to grasp my neck, scratching at my collarbone as I try to regain my composure. “Holy crap, Dean.”
“Yeah. I was reading all about it right before you texted me.”
I swallow. “What did it say? Did she give an interview? How did she escape?”
I hear him moving around on the other end with a faint rustling in the background. “Her name is Tabitha Brighton. She claims she was abducted by Earl last spring, along with her college professor. They were kept in the basement for two months before Earl killed the guy and let her go.”
“Let her go?” I repeat, dumbfounded. My heart is rattling my ribs and I start to tremble. “She’s lying. She’s got to be lying. That man didn’t have a single shred of decency inside him—there’s no way he’d let one of his victims go.”
“I don’t know, Cora. It’s still a developing story, but the professor checked out. His name was Matthew Gleason and he was one of the confirmed bodies found on the property.”
“I-It can’t be true. There’s no one else…” My breathing escalates as I lean back against the decorative pillows, staring up at the ceiling and clutching my chest. “There’s no one else.”
“I mean, it makes sense,” Dean replies. “There were eleven bodies found, yet he took his victims in pairs. I just figured there was either someone they hadn’t discovered, or he’d practiced his sick shit on someone solo first.”
“But… why wait all this time to come forward? So many victims could have been saved. We could have been saved.” I stand from the bed and start pacing the room. “She must be lying. She’s looking for attention, o-or money, or to see her name in history books one day. She’s a fraud, Dean.”