Chapter Twenty-Two
They’d been gone too long. I sat by the window, watching through a hole in the curtain for the familiar sight of the Dodge.
Nick was in the kitchen area, but I couldn’t bear to look at him.
The memory of his toned chest supported above me made a warmth stir low in my belly, and we didn’t have time for that again.
One set of headlights followed by another cut through the curtains. Moments later, Mitch and June spilled into the room.
"Everything alright here?" Mitchell asked cautiously, as if he’d expected to walk into a crime scene.
"All good," Nick said. "No problems."
After we got dressed and tried to compose ourselves, the awkwardness had settled in. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I was double-happy to have the siblings back. But deep inside, a sliver of panic twisted in my stomach. What if they could tell?
I jerked up from my chair, too fast, too stiff, too sore, and forced a smile. "Sure," I said, my voice a little too bright. "Get everything from the hotel, okay?"
"Yeah, but someone beat us to it," Mitchell said.
Nick joined us by the door, standing beside me so casually that it was as if nothing had happened. "What do you mean?"
I envied his composure.
"Somebody dug through all our stuff," Mitchell explained.
"Is anything missing?" I asked.
"I don’t think so. At least, nothing I noticed."
Relief came with knowing that most of my belongings, as well as the papers and photos from Duane’s, were safely stored in the car. I’d refused to let them out of my sight, keeping them either in the car or with me, tucked away in a backpack or purse.
The search of our belongings didn’t surprise me.
In fact, I was convinced it had been their plan all along: scare us, send us running, and buy themselves time to dig through our things.
I was sure they were after the photos. There was nothing else of value we had.
But how did they even know the images existed in the first place?
If they were so important, why hadn’t they searched for them at Duane’s place?
Either way, carrying these photos was putting us in danger.
Getting rid of them, however, wouldn’t necessarily take the target off our backs.
The hum of anxiety was growing stronger.
My movements were jerky, and I kept dropping stuff.
The only thing distracting me from it was Nick.
I let out a breath, trying to focus, trying to be normal.
But my pulse was still off-rhythm, my body betraying me every time I caught the slightest movement from Nick at the edge of my sight.
He was too close. Not touching me, not saying anything, but there. And I didn’t know what to do with that.
June was surprisingly quiet, going in and out, carrying bags and handing them to me to unload.
I’d never seen her like that before. Tense, her lips pressed into a tight line.
I got up to help her. Mitchell tossed the last of the grocery bags onto the tiny kitchen table, and June followed with my Ikea bag.
"Oh my, did you guys stock up for a zombie apocalypse?" I asked, pulling out several cans of beans.
"Figured it was best to be ready, just in case." Mitchell nudged another bag with the toe of his boot. "We’ve also got some fresh veggies and whatnot."
Nick chuckled softly behind me. It was barely a sound, barely a reaction, but it wrecked me. Because he was standing there, completely fine, while I felt like I was about to combust. I needed to pull myself together, so I rummaged through my belongings, trying to determine if anything was missing.
"June, mind getting a pot of coffee going?
" Mitchell asked, sinking wearily onto the sofa—the same one where Nick and I had hooked up earlier.
I cringed. June, unusually obedient, began fiddling with the ancient coffee maker.
It was a bit late for coffee, but Mitchell looked exhausted, and we had a long conversation ahead.
"I’ll have a cup too," Nick said.
"Then get off your ass and make it yourself," June retorted without turning around.
"And she’s back," Nick said, getting up to help.
We moved the very next day. Nick found a rental cabin on some website, not too far from Black Water, but far enough to keep us hidden.
Though tiny from the outside, the cottage’s interior was surprisingly spacious.
With multiple bedrooms—three upstairs and one just off the living room—we could finally enjoy some much-needed privacy.
"Nice, we can make a fire!" Mitchell eyed the fireplace. A stack of wood sat ready in the backyard, overlooking a neglected pond.
Later, we discussed our options. Going after the Sheriff felt too risky.
Digging deeper would only paint a bigger target on our backs.
The fact that he’d managed to cover up the disappearances and deaths, including Duane’s, for years only proved how powerful and well-connected he was.
The Reverend seemed like a more plausible lead, just as unsettling, but slightly more within reach.
Sammy’s vanishing had taken a backseat, but I could tell everyone felt guilty about it, including myself. Whenever his name came up in connection with the Reverend, our eyes would dart away, and an uncomfortable silence would fall until someone resumed the discussion.
Nobody said it out loud, but I was sure we all thought it: Sammy was gone for good, and we’d eventually uncover the truth about what had happened to him, along with Lucas, Amanda, and the others.
We owed it to him since talking to us might have sealed his fate.
Mitch and June set off for Virginia the very next day, planning a day trip to Richmond and back to visit the Reverend’s old parish. Thanks to the talkative, albeit odd, woman at the church, we knew exactly where to go.
A long, uneasy day stretched ahead for Nick and me. We didn’t talk about what had happened between us, and I was relieved. I wasn’t sure how to process it. I liked Nick, but everything had happened so suddenly. It almost felt like it came out of nowhere. Or had it?
It had rained all night and continued through the morning, the steady patter on the cabin’s roof creating a backdrop of constant white noise. The temperature had dropped, a clear sign that summer had given way to fall. We stayed indoors, keeping warm.
The cabin’s interior looked like a city dweller’s Pinterest board come to life: a stone fireplace, wooden signs reading "S’more Memories" and "Life Is Better by the Fire," and carefully placed throw blankets and pillows. Nick added a few more logs to the hearth. We’d found some space heaters, but the fire felt infinitely more inviting.
The room warmed quickly. I settled on the plush rug in front of the hearth, laptop open, and started sorting through the stack of photos and printouts from Duane’s place, arranging them in chronological order.
I searched each name online, combing through Google and Facebook.
Unsurprisingly, people from earlier years had little to no digital footprint.
One name from the more recent dates led me to a Facebook profile of a woman in her thirties who’d allegedly gone missing seven years ago.
The photo I held matched the one on her profile.
She hadn’t posted anything, but her privacy settings were wide open to public viewing.
I scrolled through her groups, and one immediately caught my eye.
Nick emerged from the kitchen and placed a plate with a freshly made turkey sandwich beside me on the rug. "Find anything?"
I turned the laptop to face him, avoiding his eyes. "Check this out."
"Safe Space Support: Domestic Violence Survivors," he read aloud. "One of the victims was in this group?"
"Two that we know of. Amanda and her."
"Okay," he said carefully, as if trying not to spook our luck, and sat down beside me on the rug. "Now we’ve got something."
I clicked the "Join Group" button and completed the questionnaire. I had to bend the truth on a few of the questions since I didn’t want to reveal my real reason for joining. Then I sent the request.
"What are you doing?" Nick asked, eyeing the screen.
"Trying to get a look at the member list. Maybe we can connect with the group admin. See if they can provide any insights."
"Okay." He nudged the plate toward me. "Eat something."
Nick was kind. Beneath the grumpy exterior, he was genuinely a good guy. He wasn’t the most open, but that didn’t change how I felt. I liked him, really liked him.
The problem was that everything about our circumstances made it complicated.
I’d never struggled to connect with guys before, but this was different.
The timing, the situation, the reasons we’d been thrown together—all of it made things awkward from the start.
I did my best to keep a just-friends-who-work-together distance, trying not to let my mind wander back to the night before.
To my shame, that was difficult.
The photos of missing people in front of me should’ve been enough to keep me focused, but they weren’t.
Nick was too close. His scent clung to the air around me, and I couldn’t help but notice the tattoos on his left arm, peeking from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.
I remembered squeezing them as I came undone, making a mental note to study them properly next time.
Next time?!
I felt very, very stupid. Concentrate, I kept telling myself.
The two missing persons posters provided me with the basics: cities, ages, and names.
But despite my efforts, I couldn’t make any progress.
No online records, no news articles, no social media profiles.
It was baffling. The few phone numbers listed led only to local police departments, not to any family members or friends.
There was no personal connection to follow, no one to talk to. Just a wall of silence.