Still Beating Jennifer Hartmann

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.

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"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.