81. Spiraling Toward The Edge
CHAPTER 81
SPIRALING TOWARD THE EDGE
DEX
T he notification pings on my laptop, dragging my attention to the live feed from Margaux’s truck. My stomach drops. It’s a shaky view, but it’s clear enough: she’s not alone. Some guy I don’t recognize is in the passenger seat, leaning too close to her.
What the fuck is she doing?
I lean forward, my heart hammering as I toggle through the feeds. The camera angle doesn’t give me much to work with, but I can see enough of the guy’s smirking face to feel my fists clenching. He’s no one I’ve seen before.
Disheveled.
Shifty.
He’s not just a random bystander.
The audio crackles, and I catch fragments of their conversation. Something about finding Timmy. My jaw tightens.
Why the hell is she chasing after him again?
She’s supposed to be done with this shit.
Then it happens. The guy leans in—way too close—and I see his hand reach for her. She flinches, pushing him away, but he doesn’t stop. My vision goes red.
“Get out of the truck,” I mutter under my breath, willing her to throw him out.
She says something I can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter—her body language says it all—she’s trapped.
I grab my phone, dialing the number I’ve memorized for emergencies involving her. It rings twice before someone picks up.
“She’s in trouble,” I snap. “Margaux. She’s in her truck with some guy. I don’t know who he is, but he’s all over her.”
The dispatcher’s voice is calm, asking for details I barely have. I rattle off what I can, giving the location of the truck from the GPS I hacked.
As I watch, the truck lurches forward, swerving slightly.
My hands grip the edge of the desk, my nails digging into the wood.
Then the screen goes black.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist on the desk, pushing back from the chair so hard it topples over.
I pace the room, phone still in hand, waiting for any updates. The silence is suffocating. My mind races with worst-case scenarios—Margaux hurt, assaulted, or worse.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before the call comes. The voice on the other end is steady but grim. “She’s alive,” they say. “But there’s been an accident.”
The relief is so sharp it’s almost painful, but it’s fleeting. An accident.
What the hell happened?
“She’s being transported to the hospital,” the voice continues. “She’s conscious but disoriented. I thought you’d want to know.”
I thank them, but the words feel hollow. My mind is already spinning, imagining her scared and alone in a hospital bed, dealing with whatever mess Timmy has dragged her into this time.
Hours later, I’m staring at the live feeds. Margaux is back in her apartment now, but I’ve replayed the footage from the ER over and over, dissecting every moment. She looked exhausted, broken, but alive.
Timmy’s voice crackles through the apartment’s feed now, cutting through the silence like a blade.
“You’re so embarrassing,” he sneers, his tone dripping with contempt.
I clench my fists so hard my knuckles pop.
“Look at you, crashing the truck like an idiot. Everyone in this building hates you now.”
Her response is barely audible. She’s too drained to argue, but I can see it in her body language—she’s not okay.
I can’t fucking stand it.
I’ve watched her endure so much, but this… this feels like the tipping point.
She could have been killed tonight. Or worse.
And instead of compassion—instead of showing the woman he supposedly loves more than anything in the world a shred of care or support—Timmy uses the opportunity to make her feel shame and guilt.
To make himself seem superior to her.
She never would have got into the truck if it wasn’t for him—she wouldn’t have had a reason to. But time and time again, he poked and prodded at her, making her fear for her safety.
She’s barely eaten in weeks, is adjusting to new medication, dealing with Timmy’s grief and the fallout over Darren’s memorial—it’s too much for anyone.
My hand hovers over the keyboard, every muscle in my body coiled tight. I could end this right now. Call the cops on Timmy, have him arrested, make it so he can’t hurt her again.
But I know it’s not that simple. Margaux has to make the call to leave him. She has to want it, or nothing I do will stick.
Still, I can’t just sit here and watch her crumble.
Whatever it takes, I’ll keep her safe.
Even if she never knows I’m the one pulling the strings.
I switch feeds, tracking Timmy’s location. He’s at the tents again, probably drunk and high, leaving Margaux alone in the wreckage of their so-called life.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.