Echoes of Secrets (Obsidian MC #7)

Chapter Nine

Mitchell

What the fuck am I doing?

Is she okay?

I read the message with a sigh. Emily called me half an hour ago saying that she was worried about Evie but wasn’t able to check on her until the club closed. So, here I am. And, again, I ask. What the fuck am I doing.

Em’s name pops up on the screen when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

“I just got here,” I greet. “I haven’t made it inside yet.”

“It’s been a week, Mitchell,” she says over the loud noise of the club. “Sometimes she’ll go days before responding because she’s so deep in her work, but it’s been a week. Somethings not right.”

“I’ll call you back when I find something out,” I say.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Apartment 14. Second floor. I’ll be waiting.”

Pocketing my phone, I double-check the address before knocking on the door.

No answer.

“Evie,” I call out. “Are you home?”

I knock again, this time with more force.

“What’s going on?” Someone asks from behind me.

“Do you know the lady that lives in this apartment?” I ask the woman.

“I know all of my tenets,” the woman sneers. “What do you want with the cripple?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, gently reminding myself that I don’t kill people for fun.

“Evalynn,” she says. “What do you want with her?”

“I just want to check in,” I answer truthfully. “Her friend hasn’t heard from her and is worried.”

“Move,” she says, shoving me aside. For an older woman, she sure is strong. And brave.

“I’m coming in,” she shouts before unlocking the door. “There’s a huge man to see you. I hope you don’t get beaten.”

With a chuckle, she turns and walks away.

Maybe I should start killing people for fun. King still does it from time to time, and he seems to enjoy it. Making a mental list to add the woman as my first kill for fun, I open the door.

“Evie,” I call out. “Are you home?”

Nothing.

Taking a quick look around, I spot her crutches leaning against the wall near the door.

“Evie, it’s Mitchell,” I say a little louder. “I’m coming in.”

Closing the door, I take care to make lots of noise as I make my way through the combined living room and kitchen.

In the corner of her living room is an office desk with a desktop.

Still no Evie.

“Evie,” I call out again, this time more urgent.

I scan the small apartment, the silence growing heavier with every passing second. The place is meticulously clean, but it feels... off. Too still. Too quiet.

My heart pounds as I make my way down the narrow hallway, checking each room as I go. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and a quick glance confirms it’s empty. I push open the door that could only lead to the bedroom and stop in my tracks.

Evie is there, curled up in the middle of the bed, her face pale and drawn. She looks fragile, smaller somehow like the weight of the world has pressed her into herself. The comforter has been tossed to the floor, and her arms are wrapped tightly around a pillow.

“Evie,” I say softly, stepping closer. I’ll admit that I stared at the stub where her leg used to be for several long moments. This is the first time I’ve seen it without something covering it up. The only thing on my mind is how much pain that must have caused her. How much it still causes her.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t open her eyes. A small, pained sound escapes her lips, and my chest tightens. She looks exhausted, and not just the kind of exhaustion that comes from lack of sleep. This is deeper. Bone-deep.

“Evie,” I repeat, my voice firmer this time. I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to startle her.

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first before they land on me. There’s a flicker of recognition, but it’s quickly replaced by confusion.

“Mitchell?” she croaks, her voice barely audible.

“Yeah, Princess, it’s me,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Emily was worried about you. I was too, to be honest.”

She blinks a few times, her brow furrowing as she tries to process my words. “Why are you here?”

“Because you haven’t answered Em’s call in a week, Evie,” I say gently. “You don’t look okay.”

She groans, rolling onto her back and throwing an arm over her eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve just been working. Lost track of time.”

I glance around the room, noting the unopened water bottle on her nightstand and the untouched sandwich nearby. She hasn’t been taking care of herself.

“Bullshit,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days. What’s going on?”

She sighs, her arm still covering her face. “I’m just tired, big guy, that’s all. You didn’t have to come all the way here. How did you get in, anyway?”

“Your bitch of a landlord,” I growl. “And, I disagree. I did have to come. Now tell me what happened, baby,” I say, unable to stop the endearment.

Evie finally uncovers her eyes and looks deep into mine. I don’t move as she works through whatever is going on inside her mind.

“I wasn’t lying,” she says as she shuffles herself into a seated position. She glances at her exposed stump and gasps before leaning over to grab the comforter. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to hide that part of herself from me, but it would just make me a hypocrite.

I’m hiding a hell of a lot of myself from her and everyone else in my life.

“I really did spend a couple of days working,” she says once she’s comfortable.

Her words are soft, her voice raspy from what I can only assume is a lack of use. But it’s not her voice or her excuses that hold my attention. It’s her. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her face, the wild mess of her hair, and the dark circles beneath her eyes, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She looks vulnerable, fragile even, and it stirs something primal in me. A fierce need to protect her, to care for her, to pull her into my arms and never let her go.

I crave the feeling of holding her again. The last time I did, it felt like the world finally made sense, like every broken part of me clicked into place. I want to feel that again, to wrap her up so tightly that she can’t pull away. Only this time, I don’t want it to be because she’s in pain. I want to whisper to her that it’s okay to let someone else carry the weight for a while.

But I can’t. Not yet.

Not ever.

“You’re not okay, Evie,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “And I need you to stop pretending you are. Emily is worried. I’m worried. Let us in, damn it.”

Her eyes dart away from mine, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of the comforter. “I’m fine, Mitchell,” she repeats, but her voice cracks, betraying her.

I reach out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She flinches at the contact, and it’s like a knife to my chest. But I don’t pull back. Instead, I let my hand linger for a moment, my fingers grazing her cheek.

“You don’t have to hide from me, precious,” I say, my voice low, almost a whisper. “You’re so beautiful, Evie. But, right now, you don’t look healthy. Tell me why.”

Sighing, Evie looks up into my eyes, and I nearly stop breathing at the pain I see.

“It sucks being in pain all the time,” she whispers, a single tear falling down her face. “Like I said before, I wasn’t lying. I really did spend a couple of days working. It was an exhausting couple of days because I waited until the last minute to get a week’s worth of projects done in two days. But I do that a lot. Strangely, I work better under pressure.”

Her voice is small, almost defeated, and it tears through me. I watch as she wipes the tear from her cheek, but I catch her hand before she can drop it back to her lap. I hold it between mine, noticing how cold her skin feels and how fragile she seems.

“That doesn’t explain the rest of the week, Evie,” I say gently. “You’ve been holed up in here, not eating, not sleeping. Talk to me. Please.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks away again, staring at the wall as though it holds all the answers she’s trying to avoid giving me. “I just... I didn’t have the energy to keep going,” she finally admits, her voice trembling. “After I finished the projects, I crashed. I slept for a day and a half straight. When I woke up, everything hurt. So much more than usual. It felt like... like I couldn’t breathe under the weight of it all. And when it gets like that, Mitchell, I can’t function. I just... exist.”

Sighing, she uses her free hand to toss aside the blanket, revealing her stump.

“My leg was shattered from the accident,” she says, glancing down at her body. “The doctors did try to reattach it, but there was just too much damage. I went under anesthetic with the full expectation that I would wake up in pain, spend a few months healing, and walk away. But I woke up with part of me missing. It took a long time in therapy to heal my brain. Em was actually a huge part of that. I wouldn’t have been able to get through it had it not been for her.”

Reaching across her body, I grab the unopened bottle of water and hand it to her.

After several drinks and a small, sad smile, she continues.

I don’t dare say a word.

“Once my wound healed, I went in to get fitted for a prosthetic,” she says, her tone betraying far more than her words. It’s clear things didn’t go as planned. “Every time pressure was applied to my stump, I’d feel sharp, electric shocks radiating up my leg and into my back. The doctors said I needed more time to heal. Months passed again, but that’s when the phantom pains started. We already knew medication wouldn’t help, so my physical therapist suggested trying something called mirror therapy. Have you heard of it?”

I shake my head, instinctively moving closer to her, unable to resist the pull.

“It’s actually pretty fascinating,” she says, a small smile lifting her lips. “I sit on the floor with a mirror positioned between my legs, angled so the mirror reflects my left leg. When I look at the reflection, it creates the illusion that I have both legs again. If I have a phantom itch, which is one of the strangest sensations imaginable, I use the mirror. I’ll scratch the corresponding spot on my left leg while watching the reflection. Sometimes, it tricks my brain into thinking I’ve scratched the itch on my missing leg. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, for a fleeting moment, I actually feel relief. It’s like my brain believes I’m really scratching my right leg just by looking at the reflection.”

“That is pretty cool,” I admit softly.

She smiles up at me, but I can tell that she isn’t finished telling me her story.

“It really is,” she sighs. “Anyway, because of the severity of the phantom pain, my doctors wanted to try the operation I told you about the last time I saw you. But, of course, that didn’t work. It didn’t take as long to heal from it, but I was done with disappointment. So, I didn’t go back to the doctor for a year. I learned to use the crutches that they gave me, and when I’m home, I use my chair.”

“Why not use your chair when you leave?” I ask.

“Because the elevator doesn’t work in this building,” she rolls her eyes. “I tried once to get my chair down the flight of steps, but it didn’t work out. It took ages to get it back up here, and I decided it was more hassle than it’s worth.”

“How do you get out of the building if the elevator doesn’t work?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Another reason to add her scum lord to my kill-for-fun list.

“The stairs,” she shrugs. “I just sit on my butt and scoot.”

Deciding it was best to move the conversation along, I ask, “Why haven’t you gone back in for a prosthetic?”

“I have,” she sighs. “Twice now. Once six months ago. When I was denied, I had to wait another six months to try again.”

“When do you go back?” I ask, already moving plans around in my head so I can take her.

“Two weeks ago,” she admits. “I was denied the first time because they said I needed to heal a bit more. I was denied this time because, apparently, I can get around just fine with the equipment they’ve already given me. I have to wait another six months to try again. The process is grueling, Mitchell. It’s not just about going in and asking for a prosthetic. There are approvals, assessments, and appeals if they deny me. I’ve done everything they asked, but...” She looks away, her lips trembling. “It’s not my doctors saying no. It’s my insurance. They won’t approve it.”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Anger bubbles beneath the surface, directed not at her but at the injustice of it all. “Insurance?” I say, my voice sharp. “They’re the ones holding you back from getting what you need? That’s bullshit, Evie.”

She flinches slightly at my tone but nods. “They claim it’s not medically necessary,” she explains bitterly. “Even though I’ve had multiple doctors fight for me, saying it would improve my quality of life. But the insurance company doesn’t care about that. To them, I’m just a number. A liability.”

The frustration surges, and I have to stand up to pace, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. “And without insurance?”

“It would cost me upwards of twenty grand,” she says quietly. “Maybe more, depending on the type of prosthetic. And I don’t have that kind of money. Even if I save for years, I don’t know if I’d ever be able to afford it. So, I don’t think I’m going to keep trying for one. It’s easier than getting my hopes up just to have them crushed again.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like a punch to the gut. She’s been fighting this battle alone, enduring pain and injustice without letting anyone in. And now I understand. She’s not just physically exhausted. She’s emotionally exhausted, too.

I turn back to her, sitting on the edge of the bed again and taking her hand in mine. “This isn’t right, Evie,” I say, my voice firm but gentle. “You shouldn’t have to go through this. And you shouldn’t have to give up on something that could make your life better because some greedy assholes at an insurance company won’t do their job.”

Her eyes well with tears, and she looks away as if ashamed. “What am I supposed to do, Mitchell?” she whispers. “I’ve fought and fought, and I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to keep fighting anymore.”

I squeeze her hand, leaning in closer so she can’t avoid my gaze. “You’re not fighting alone anymore, Evie. Do you hear me? We’ll figure this out. Whatever it takes, we’ll get you that prosthetic.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, wide and searching as if she doesn’t quite believe me. “Why do you care so much?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

Because you’re everything, I want to say. Because I’ve never met anyone like you, and I can’t stand the thought of you suffering. But I can’t say that, either. Not yet. Instead, I settle for, “Because you deserve better, baby. And I don’t give up on the people I care about.”

Twenty grand wouldn’t even put a dent in my bank account. But the more I keep throwing around amounts like that, the easier it’s going to be for them to find me. If they’re smart enough to look for the trail, that is.

But I don’t fucking care. I’m going to get this woman her leg, and I’m going to make damn sure she never knows I did.

Evie breaks my thoughts with a smirk, her voice light despite the weight of our conversation. “I’m thinking of just getting a peg leg and living like a pirate,” she teases. “I mean, those little girls put the idea in my head, so I might as well embrace it.”

I shake my head, a soft chuckle escaping me. Only she could joke about something like this, her humor acting as armor. It just makes me want to fight harder for her.

Turning toward the door, I glance over my shoulder. “Get dressed, Princess.”

She blinks, startled. “Why? Where am I going?”

I grin. “I’m taking you out on a date.”

Her mouth falls open, her eyes wide with shock. “A what?” she gasps, her voice nearly a whisper.

“A date, Evie,” I repeat, laughing softly at her stunned expression. “I want to take you on a date. Is that alright?”

She stares at me, her lips parting and closing as if she’s searching for the right words. “I… I mean... are you serious?” she finally says, her cheeks flushing a deep pink.

“Dead serious,” I reply, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You deserve to be taken out, spoiled a little. And it would make me very happy if you allow me to do that.”

Her hands wring together in her lap, her brow furrowed. “I don’t... I don’t have anything nice to wear,” she mutters, clearly flustered.

I push off the doorframe and stride back toward her, crouching down so we’re eye to eye. “Evie,” I say gently, cupping her chin and making her look at me. “It’s not about what you wear. It’s about being with you. I don’t care if you wear sweats and a hoodie. You’ll still be the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Her breath hitches, her eyes shimmering as she searches my face looking for any sign this might be a joke. But I’m not joking. Not about this.

“Okay,” she whispers finally, her voice so soft I almost miss it.

I smile, standing and brushing my thumb across her cheek before stepping back. “Good. You’ve got thirty minutes, Princess.”

As I head to the door, I glance back one last time. She’s still sitting there, staring at me like she can’t quite believe what just happened. Her lips curl into a small, hesitant smile, and my chest tightens.

This woman has no idea just how far I’m willing to go for her. But by the end of tonight, I’ll make damn sure she knows exactly what she’s worth.

As I make my way to her couch to wait, I try desperately to ignore the constant images on repeat in my mind.

I won’t let him touch her. I won’t let him touch any of them.