Chapter Thirty-Five #2
I wanted nothing to do with the book. If it were up to me, I’d burn it and bury the ashes deep.
Then something happened that I couldn’t confess to Nick.
One afternoon, while he was out, I went into his office to print shipping labels.
The grimoire was on the desk, open. I didn’t mean to touch it, but my hand moved before I could think.
I flipped through the pages, trying to see what Nick found so fascinating, but it was only brittle paper and nonsense symbols.
I snapped a few pictures with my phone, hoping to run a reverse image search or find a cipher tool online.
But the photos came out warped and blurred, with nothing identifiable.
At first, I thought it was the dim light, so I turned on the lamp and even stood near the window, but nothing helped.
I tried again, and again, with the same result—the ink seemed to melt or shift the moment I hit the button.
I attempted to make a video, but that didn’t work either.
Nick’s truck rumbled into the driveway, and I scrambled, suddenly aware I was invading his privacy. I dropped the book, bolted from the office, and forgot all about the labels. My heart was still hammering when he called up to ask what I wanted for dinner.
I deleted the photos and never went near the book again, not because I was afraid Nick would find out, but because I feared that if I kept digging, I might uncover something I wasn’t ready to face.
After that, life returned to its strange version of normal. But beneath it all, there was a quiet tension, like something waiting just out of sight. Some days, it felt as though I couldn’t breathe, as if the walls were inching closer.
I kept telling myself it was only paranoia.
June and I texted now and then, but we never called each other.
Most of her messages were complaints about her brother’s overprotectiveness or questions about how to move away and start over.
Then, one afternoon, while I was making dinner and riding the high of a sudden burst of culinary inspiration, my phone rang. Mitchell’s name lit up the screen.
"Hey, Foster. How’s it hanging?"
I told him I was doing well. "Anything exciting on your end? Did you start the police academy yet?" I tossed the steaks onto the cast iron, and the sizzle was louder than I expected. I jumped away so hot oil wouldn’t splatter on me.
"I, uh..." He hesitated. "I’m in firefighter training now. Trying to get certified."
He said it like a confession.
"Really? That’s a change. What made you switch?" I reached for a dish towel to wipe up a spill, half-distracted.
"Kinda got disillusioned with the whole police thing," he said. "Figure helping people directly might be more my speed than just filling quotas."
I was taken aback by how honest he sounded. "That actually makes a lot of sense. I bet you’ll be great at it." I dropped the knife, and it nearly hit my foot. "Shit."
"You alright? Need me to call back some other time?"
"No, it’s fine. I’m just on a cooking mission. But I’m good at multitasking," I said, brushing it off and reaching for the salt, only to knock over a jar of spices. "So, what’s up? Is June okay?"
"Yeah, she’s fine. Still got her heart set on moving to New York, chasing that art dream."
"What kind of art does she do?" I asked, crouching to gather the spilled spices.
"She doesn’t do any art," he said with a deep sigh.
I snickered.
"Listen, Foster..." he began, then went quiet.
"Yeah?" I prompted, only half-focused as I moved around the kitchen.
"I... well... you know..." His voice dropped, barely audible.
Outside, the rumble of a car engine grew louder. "Hold on, Nick’s home. Want to say hi?"
"Nick? Our Nick?" He sounded surprised, like it hadn’t even occurred to him. "You guys are together?"
I realized then I’d never updated either of them. As far as they knew, Nick and I had gone our separate ways.
"Yeah, kind of," I said, keeping it vague.
"Kind of?" his voice faltered, like he was caught off guard.
"I’m staying with him right now," I said, suddenly feeling awkward. My mind flashed back to the day June had walked in on us, caught in a less-than-appropriate moment in the kitchen of that cabin.
"I see." Mitchell’s pause hung in the air.
"You want to talk to him?" I offered.
"It’s okay. I gotta go," he said abruptly.
"Wait, didn’t you want to tell me something?" I asked. I could feel him holding something back.
"No, it’s nothing. Just wanted to check in." His tone had gone flat, like a door quietly shutting.
"Well... alright then," I was puzzled by his reaction. Why would it matter to him if I were with Nick?
"Yeah. Take care, Foster," he said, then hung up.
Nick stepped into the kitchen, bringing a swirl of winter air that briefly cut through the warmth.
"Cold out, huh?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. February rarely surprised.
"Very," he said, shedding his winter coat as he took a deep breath. "Smells amazing. I didn’t know you cooked."
"I don’t," I admitted. "Just wanted to do something nice for you. So, eat at your own risk." I peered at him. "Mitchell called earlier."
Nick’s expression shifted. "What did he say?"
"Not much. He hung up out of nowhere. Now I’m wondering if something’s going on."
Nick smirked. "Perhaps he was about to confess his undying love for you and got cold feet."
I laughed. "Yeah, sure." But my smile faded. "What if someone was bothering him, and he was trying to warn us?"
"Then why didn’t he?"
"I don’t know. Maybe he thought we’d be safer not knowing. Mitch has always been protective."
Nick nodded slowly. "That sounds like Sergeant Mitch."
A storm raged outside, the tempest’s unrelenting wail jolted me awake.
I turned over, reaching out for Nick’s warmth, but his side of the bed was empty.
I got up and wandered into the room he used as an office.
He was hunched over the table, surrounded by books and papers, the grimoire open before him.
"Still trying to summon the devil?" I asked, half-teasing.
Nick jumped. "You almost gave me a heart attack," he said with a shaky laugh. "Why are you up?"
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Couldn’t sleep."
He beckoned me over, and I curled into his lap. We sat quietly for a while, the wind rattling the windows as the storm battered the house. Nick held me close, steady and calm.
"Sometimes it feels like this will never end," I murmured.
"Hm?" His breath was warm against my ear.
"Like we’re stuck in limbo. Like the storm will go on and on, and we’ll just be here forever."
Nick’s arms tightened around me. "You feel stuck here? With me?"
I let out a quiet laugh, suddenly self-conscious. "No... not like that. I just meant—"
"I know what you meant," he said gently. "I feel it too. But honestly? I kind of like it. It’s like the rest of the world disappeared."
I thought of my mom, how far away she seemed, as though she was living on a different planet. Was she thinking of me, too?
Nick gave my hip a light tap, pulling me back from the spiral. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go to bed."