Tears spill before I can stop them. Silent, messy, relief-soaked tears. I press my lips to his knuckles and let myself breathe for the first time since the roof came down.
He’s alive. He’s going to be okay.
My hand still wrapped around his, afraid that if I let go—even for a second—I’ll wake up and find this was a nightmare. The fear doesn’t disappear. It sits beside me, a reminder.
I know when morning comes, everything will look the same. The store, the road, and the parking lot. But nothing will feel the same again.
Because now I know how quickly normal can shatter.
And how close I came to losing the man I love.
25
Jolee
The phone is ringing. My anxiety is rising. This should be a good thing, right? Why don’t I feel relieved?
My hands are shaking so badly that I have to put the phone on speaker. I tell them about the letters. About the signature. About Shelly Jones—SJ. About how she used to look and anything that might help find her.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Too long.
Finally, the officer says, “We actually just detained someone who may fit that description. We’ll need you to bring in the letter you received, and we may see if you can identify her.”
Shit. I really wish I weren’t alone right now, so that I wouldn’t have to do this alone.
My stomach twists. “You should talk to Clay Clemet. Didn’t he call earlier?” I blurt out. “He might know something?—”
I stop. Something doesn’t feel right.
They don’t say anything.
Then, finally, the officer says, “He did call us a couple of days ago, but nothing since.”
The call ends shortly after, but the silence lingers. Something feels off. Wrong in a way I can’t name yet.
I check my phone. Nothing from Clay. Nothing from Grant.
Wow. This really sucks.
It’s not like we broke up—we were never even together—but it still hurts. More than it should. A small, stupid part of me hoped it meant more. That I meant more to them.
Damn it.
I don’t know how I went from despising Clay for not leaving me alone to missing him. Missing both of them. Thinking about them endlessly.
This is why you’re supposed to date for real, I tell myself. Start from scratch. Get-to-know-you conversations, then maybe lunch. I really don’t know how to date, but I do know I did this all wrong.
I flip on the TV for background noise and pour myself a cup of coffee. I need distractions. The morning news flickers on while I stare at the list I made yesterday.
Actions. Possibilities. Moving forward.
Nothing like the present to finally pick one.
Then I hear it, “…a hardware store?—”
My head snaps up.
There’s only one hardware store in Whispering Waters. Grant’s.