Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MAYA
The flat is quiet now.
Too quiet, after the racket of the soft play, the chaos of toddlers colliding like bumper cars, the buzz of pub chatter, and Lila’s never-ending narration about trampolines and dinosaur nuggets.
I half expect to hear her voice still bouncing off the walls, but no, it’s just me.
Me and the hum of the boiler, the faint creak of pipes, the occasional groan from the old radiator.
Lila’s finally asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed, one leg kicked out from under the covers.
I had to peel her out of her leggings and coax her into a bath, and even then, she fought sleep like it was a personal insult.
But exhaustion won eventually. She always gives in when I stroke her back long enough.
Now she’s out cold, cheeks still pink from running wild. Her curls are still damp, curling tighter at the tips and I linger by her doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of her little chest, just to be sure. Then I slip out, easing the door shut.
The quiet is dangerous. It makes space for thoughts I try not to let in.
I don’t turn on the telly. Don’t pick up my phone. Instead, I move around the kitchen in a kind of autopilot, wiping down the already-clean counters, putting away Lila’s lunchbox, folding a tea towel that doesn’t need folding. The silence grows, sticky and heavy.
Eventually, I give in and make tea. Not because I want it. It’s just something to hold. I curl up on the end of the sofa, hands wrapped around the chipped yellow mug, and let myself feel.
Owen, was so kind today. He always is. Thoughtful in ways most men wouldn’t even think to be. Quiet when I need quiet, silly with Lila when I don’t have the energy to be, solid in this way I can’t quite explain. Like he’s always there. Like he’s not going anywhere.
And that terrifies me more than I can say. Because what if I let myself believe it? What if I’m wrong?
It hits me then, like a cold breath down the back of my neck, how familiar this kind of night used to be. How normal. And how different it feels now, without the fear. Before, it was never this still.
There was always tension, coiled tight, buzzing in the air.
Like you didn’t know when the next slam of a door would come, or whether you’d said the wrong thing without realising.
I used to walk around our old house with my shoulders hunched up to my ears, bracing.
Every cupboard I opened, every message I replied to, I asked myself, will this be the thing that sets him off today?
It didn’t matter how careful I was. I allow my mind to wonder.
He comes home late. The baby’s finally asleep, my hair still wet from the shower I managed to grab while she napped.
I’ve made dinner, nothing fancy, just pasta, but it’s hot and ready when he walks in. I think I’ve done everything right today. The house is clean. The baby’s fed. I didn’t text anyone he wouldn’t approve of. I’ve been good.
But he frowns the second he steps through the door.
“What’s that smell?” he says, wrinkling his nose.
I freeze mid-stir.
“Just pasta. With garlic. You like it.”
“Not when it stinks out the place. Jesus, Maya.”
My throat tightens. “I can open a window,”
“Don’t bother.” He kicks off his shoes. They land in the middle of the hallway. I don’t say anything. Just make a note to move them later so I don’t trip in the night.
He doesn’t eat the dinner. Just goes straight to the living room, turns on the TV loud enough to shake the baby monitor.
When I bring him a plate anyway, he waves it away. “I said I’m not hungry. Christ, do you ever listen?”
I retreat to the kitchen, swallow the lump in my throat, and eat alone, standing over the sink. I wash the dishes in silence. I check on the baby. I tiptoe.
And later, when I slide into bed next to him, he rolls over without a word.
My eyes sting as I zone back in to the present.
I sip my now-cold tea, gripping the mug a little tighter than necessary. That was my life for so long, I almost forgot what it was like to not live like that. To not measure every word, every breath, every second.
And yet, Owen walks into my home like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be kind. Like warmth is his baseline setting.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to trust it.
But God, I want to.
Finishing my tea, I rinse the mug and turn out the lights.
My limbs feel heavy as I drag myself toward the bedroom.
I don’t bother with pyjamas, just strip off my jeans, tug on a soft T-shirt, and climb into bed.
The sheets are warm from the radiator heat, and my pillow still faintly smells like fabric softener.
I check my phone one last time. There’s a message from Owen.
Owen: Text me if you need anything, yeah? Anything at all.
I type out three different replies before deleting them all.
In the end, I send a simple response.
MAYA: Thanks. Night, Bear.
His reply is instant.
OWEN: Night, Jellybean’s Mum
I smile despite myself. My heart tugs in that unfamiliar, unguarded way it’s started doing lately. And even though I don’t want to name it, even though I’m not ready for everything it might mean.
I fall asleep thinking about him.
The sound tears through the flat like a gunshot.
I jolt upright in bed, my heart immediately racing, breath caught in my throat.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm.
The front door sensor. Triggered.
It’s 2:17 a.m.
I scramble out of bed, disoriented and barefoot. My legs feel like jelly. I grab the baseball bat from under my bed that’s always there just in case. The alarm’s still going, loud and shrill. Lila. I need to get to Lila.
I fly down the hallway, adrenaline making everything sharp and slow at once. The floor’s cold under my feet. I burst into her room and she’s sitting up in bed, confused, sleepy-eyed and scared.
“Mummy?”
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper, heart hammering. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
I shut her door quietly, then inch back toward the front hallway. The alarm light is blinking red. Door open. But nothing looks disturbed. No broken glass. No sounds.
I edge closer, bat raised.
The front door is shut.
Still locked.
I blink.
What?
I check it twice. Locked. Chain still latched.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the bat.
False alarm? I turn off the system, heart still pounding. The alarm finally cuts off. I check every window, every room, just to be sure. Nothing. No signs of entry. No shadowy figures lurking. Just a flat full of silence and the soft hum of appliances.
Eventually, I sag against the wall, the bat slipping from my hand.
When I manage to calm my breathing down and pull myself together, I head back to Lila’s room, I sit on the edge of Lila’s bed, watching her drift back to sleep.
Her small fingers curled around my old hoodie sleeve.
I stroke her back until her breathing evens out. Then I reach for my phone.
MAYA: Alarm went off. Nothing there. Front door still locked. I think it was a glitch. But I’m still shaking.
I don’t expect him to be awake; I just needed to tell someone. But less than a minute later, the typing dots appear.
OWEN: Want me to come over? I can be there in ten.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t. But the truth is, I don’t want to be alone right now. Not with that old fear creeping back in, even if it’s irrational.
MAYA: Yes. Please.
OWEN: On my way.
Because of course he is. Because he shows up. Every time.
Even at 2:17 a.m., when the alarms scream and the past comes creeping in like smoke through a crack in the door.
There’s a knock at the door exactly ten minutes later and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Even though I know it’s him, even though I asked him to come, the sound rattles through me like a warning shot. My body’s still buzzing from the adrenaline. I check the peephole just to be sure.
It’s Owen. Still in jeans and a hoodie, hair mussed, eyes wide and searching. I undo the chain with trembling fingers and pull the door open.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful. “You okay?”
I nod. Then immediately shake my head. And then I’m crying.
It’s not the quiet kind. Not the dainty, movie sort of crying where a single tear rolls down your cheek while you blink stoically.
This is the kind that takes over. Messy, uncontrollable, like the fear I’ve been swallowing down all night has finally clawed its way back up.
Owen steps in and shuts the door behind him in one movement.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, arms already wrapping around me before I can collapse.
I don’t even think. I just bury my face in his chest and let go.
His hoodie smells of soap and winter and something uniquely him.
He’s warm, solid, grounding. His arms come around me fully, one hand at the nape of my neck, the other across my back, and I let myself lean into that strength, shaking and sobbing like I haven’t done in years.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“Don’t be,” he says instantly, holding me tighter. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not for this.”
We stand like that for a long time. My knees give out and we sink to the floor together in the narrow hallway, his back against the wall, me curled up in his lap.
He doesn’t rush me. Just keeps his arms around me, one hand slowly stroking my hair, the other steady at my back.
Eventually, the sobs ease. I breathe in shakily, pulling back just enough to look at him.
His face is full of quiet concern. No judgment. No impatience.
Just him.
“Sorry,” I whisper again, wiping at my cheeks. “God, I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”
“You’ve been holding it together all day,” he says gently. “All week. Probably all year.”
I nod, throat thick. “I think I just… I heard the alarm and I know it was probably nothing. A glitch or wind or whatever. But in that moment…” I trail off, my chest tightening again. “I thought maybe he’d found us.”
Owen goes still.
“You mean Jamie?”
I nod again, barely managing the word. “Yeah.”
His hand finds mine, fingers weaving together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you think that’s a real possibility?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I haven’t heard from him in almost a year. He used to try, especially when Lila was younger. Calls, emails. But I never responded. Changed my number. But still…”
I shift, my arm brushing against the edge of the doorframe, and wince without thinking. Owen notices. He doesn’t say anything at first, just gently lifts the sleeve of my hoodie that’s fallen down around my elbow. His hand pauses.
There, on the inside of my forearm, is the faint scar I usually manage to keep hidden. It’s small, faded with time, but unmistakable.
He traces it lightly with his thumb. “This was him?”
I nod, throat burning. “He had a cigarette in his hand. I said something about not wanting Lila in the car with him when he was angry. And he just grabbed me.” My voice cracks. “He didn’t even flinch. Just pressed it in.”
Owen’s jaw tightens. His whole body tenses under me. But his hand stays gentle.
“Jesus, Maya.”
“I covered it up. Told people it was a cooking accident. Kept telling myself he never hit me, so it didn’t count. But…” I meet his eyes, heart hammering. “It counted. It still counts.”
“It does,” he says fiercely. “It counts. Every bit of it. And none of it was your fault.”
I nod, but the guilt still clings. Old habits die hard.
Owen exhales, brushing his knuckles against my cheek. “I’m so damn sorry he did that to you. That you had to carry all of this alone.”
“I’m not alone now,” I whisper. “Right?”
“Never again,” he says, without hesitation.
There’s something in the way he says it that’s solid and sure and so completely Owen, that makes my chest ache. Not with fear, this time. With relief.
He helps me up, still holding my hand. “Come on. Let’s sit somewhere a bit more comfortable.”
I follow him into the living room. He doesn’t ask questions when I tuck myself into his side on the sofa. He just wraps an arm around me, settling in like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Lila stirs once in her bedroom down the hall. I freeze. Owen rubs my arm gently.
“She’s fine,” he murmurs. “You both are.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. The scar on my arm still tingles, but it doesn’t own me. Not anymore. “I’m so tired,” I whisper.
“Sleep,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”