Chapter 5 #2
“Good.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Text me when you get there. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll come over and glare at him from the driveway.”
“Very intimidating,” I deadpanned.
“I know.” He hesitated, then squeezed my shoulder once. “You’re doing better than you were, Chloe. I can see it. Don’t let Zarek derail you.”
After he left, I sat alone in the suddenly-too-quiet apartment, staring at the two panels on the wall.
Seris looked back at me from the ruined city. In this page, her hand was reaching for a door she wasn’t sure she wanted to open.
“Fine,” I told her. “We’ll do it together.”
Driving back into Jasper Creek felt like walking into a memory.
The town hadn’t changed—at least not on the surface. Same narrow streets. Same charming town square. Same mountains hemming us in, watching patiently like they knew all our secrets.
What had changed was me.
The closer I got to our house, the harder my hands clenched on the steering wheel. My heart alternated between sprinting and stumbling. I hadn’t been here since the night I left with a suitcase and shaking hands, too numb to cry.
I parked at the curb and sat for a moment, just looking.
The house looked… fine. The lawn was mowed and the flower bed under the window was full of blooming plants. Surprisingly, they were doing well. That was odd. I was expecting neglect.
I got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it.
I half-expected him to fling open the door before I could use it. Part of me hoped he would. Part of me prayed he wouldn’t.
He didn’t.
I knocked and waited. Nothing.
I knocked louder, and this time didn’t wait as long before ringing the doorbell. When I was met with nothing, I reached into my purse and pulled out my key.
My fingers fumbled a bit at the lock. Old muscle memory finally kicked in, and the deadbolt turned with a familiar click.
I stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
Clean.
Not just not dirty—but that sharp tang of cleaner, laundry detergent, and something lemony that had never existed in our shared history in this concentration.
The second thing that hit me was the silence.
I closed the door softly behind me and stood in the entryway, taking it in.
The living room looked… wrong.
It was spotless.
The coffee table was clear. No stray magazines, no remote half-hanging off the edge, no empty water glass with a ring on the wood. The coasters were actually stacked. The throw pillows were arranged like they’d been posed for a photo shoot.
The afghan—my afghan—was folded with geometric precision over the back of the couch.
A chill slid down my spine.
“Okay,” I whispered. “That’s new.”
Zarek wasn’t messy in a disaster sense. He just lived. Shoes kicked off wherever. Jacket draped over a chair. Bed in a permanent state of half-made. Dishes migrating toward the sink in slow, inevitable procession.
This?
This looked like a staging house.
I moved farther in, my footsteps muffled on the freshly vacuumed carpet. I could see the lines. Perfect, straight tracks where someone had gone back and forth, back and forth, until there wasn’t a single footprint left.
My chest tightened.
I walked into the kitchen. Counters: wiped.
Sink: empty. Dish rack: nothing. Not even a rogue fork.
The trash can had a new liner. No crumpled paper towels peeking out.
No takeout containers. The fridge door was free of smudges; the magnets were all lined up along the top edge in a neat row instead of chaotic clusters.
I opened the fridge automatically. Inside, items were arranged in insane precision—condiments grouped together, eggs front and center, prepped containers of grilled chicken and vegetables in a perfect grid.
Zarek did not do meal prep.
“What are you doing, baby?” I whispered, closing the door.
I checked the small laundry room off the kitchen. The hamper was empty. The washer lid was propped open, the drum gleaming. A stack of folded towels sat on the shelf like they were in a catalog.
The knot in my chest twisted into something sharper.
What in the hell was going on?
There was only one room I couldn’t bring myself to look at.
The nursery.
I walked down the hallway toward our bedroom, my heart thudding harder with each step.
The bedroom door was open.
I stopped in the doorway and gripped the frame, because for a second, I honestly thought my knees might give out.
The bed was made.
Not just pulled up.
Made.
The sheets were crisp. The comforter was smoothed perfectly, no wrinkles, corners aligned.
The pillows were fluffed and arranged, decorative shams in front.
The edges of the blanket were tucked with military precision.
It looked exactly the way I used to make it on Saturdays after I washed the linens.
I’d joke that I was resetting our week. He’d joke that I was training for my side gig as a hotel maid.
He never made it like this.
Ever.
The carpet in here had vacuum lines, too. Straight, even. No socks on the floor. No T-shirt tossed on the chair. The nightstand on his side was empty except for his phone charger, coiled neatly.
It didn’t look like a man lived here. It looked like a man was trying very hard not to.
Fear slid icy fingers down my spine.
“Zarek?” I called, even though I knew he wasn’t home. My voice sounded small in the too-tidy space.
No answer of course.
I sat on the edge of the bed very carefully, like I might mess up the lines, and pressed my hands together in my lap.
This wasn’t just fanatical cleaning. I realized this was Zarek’s way of maintaining control over the part of his life that was still under his power.
Was this how he kept from drowning?
A memory flashed—him sitting in that hard plastic chair at the hospital, shoulders hunched, eyes red, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had gone white. The doctor’s voice had been kind and clinical, an awful combination.
Sometimes these things just happen. It’s no one’s fault.
He’d stared at the floor like he could burn a hole through it while I’d cried until I couldn’t see straight.
Now, here, there were no tears. Just a house cleaned to perfection. Sterile and lifeless.
The front door opened.
I jerked to my feet so fast the room tilted. My heart slammed against my ribs, and my palms went damp.
“Chloe?”
Zerek. He’d seen my car.
I stepped into the hallway.
He stood just inside the front door, one hand braced on the wall like he needed it to stay upright.
For a second, all I saw was him.
Tall, broad shoulders filling the space. Dark hair a little too long, curling at the nape of his neck. A day or two of scruff on his jaw. The worn Jasper Creek Fire Department T-shirt clinging to his chest.
Then the details hit.
The butterfly bandage over his right eyebrow, holding together an angry cut. The faint purpling around his eye that promised a spectacular bruise by morning. The way his left arm hovered close to his side, hand pressed over his ribs like he was trying to hold himself in one piece.
My stomach dropped.
“What in the hell happened?” I gasped, moving toward him before I could think better of it. “Were you attacked?”