Chapter Thirty #2
"Oh, good, you’re alright," she said with relief. "Want to grab something to eat? There’s a taco place nearby."
"Tacos for my special meal? Why not?" I replied, forcing a smile.
"Don’t say that," June chided softly.
"I’m sorry."
"I’m not really hungry, to be honest," she admitted, her shoulders slumping.
"Neither am I."
We stayed in.
I paced the motel room, nervous energy coiling tighter with every passing minute. It had been hours, and still no word from Mitch or Nick. They’d forbidden us from calling—said they’d check in when they could.
I couldn’t shake the fear that something had gone wrong. Maybe they’d run into Robert’s men. We had no idea how many were part of his gang. His coven. For all we knew, they might’ve been patrolling the whole town, maybe even watching the cemetery.
The minutes dragged on, and I checked the clock on the wall obsessively, willing the hands to move faster. 9:47 PM. 9:52 PM. 9:59 PM.
"Why didn’t you leave with Nick? I thought you guys were together or something."
June’s words made me pause, and I exhaled, feeling the weight of my recent decisions pressing down on me. "No, I went home. He went back to Minnesota. We’re not together."
June’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
I faltered. "Because he has his life, and I have mine. Had. Whatever."
"I’m sorry I outed you guys. It wasn’t nice. I was just..." she trailed off, searching for the right word to name her emotions.
I waved a hand to dismiss it. It didn’t matter anymore.
June’s gaze softened. "Do you still love Lucas? Is that why?"
I winced. She’d hit a nerve. "I don’t know. The more I think about our relationship, the less fond I am of the memories. It’s like... I was blind to a lot of things, and now I’m starting to see everything for what it was."
June’s lips curved downward in a soft, sympathetic frown. "Why? Did he treat you poorly?"
"No, but he kept secrets, apparently. And perhaps that’s what killed him. And the entire time, he made me feel like I was the one who was crazy and controlling. But the truth is, I was just never enough."
"I’m sure he loved you," she tried comforting me, but her words only fueled my anger. I didn’t need pity, especially not from a nineteen-year-old.
"He lied to me, June. He never told me about any of this. And now, because of him, I’m going to die too. Never forgive a man who lies, and never trust anyone who’s lied to you once. They’ll do it again."
"You won’t die. We’ll figure something out. They’ll find it. And I’m sure you’ve had plenty of good things to remember with Lucas."
Lucas’s name felt like a curse in my mind.
Two years of memories, reduced to a toxic shrine of books and clothes.
I’d clung to them, hoping to revive the love we had.
But now, they only mocked me. His disappearance left me with nothing but questions and the bitter taste of betrayal.
Lucas and his father were equally to blame for my suffering.
Something inside me snapped. I shoved back from the table, my chair scraping loudly against the floor as I shot to my feet. I didn’t look at June. I couldn’t. I stormed out of the motel room, the door slamming shut behind me, and made a beeline for the car.
I yanked open the trunk, hands trembling as I grabbed the gym bag—the one I’d been too afraid to touch. It held the fragile remnants of Lucas, memories I’d clung to like a relic, desperate to keep him close, terrified to let go. Now, even holding it felt like it was choking me.
"Where are you going?" June called after me, but I didn’t answer.
My eyes fell on the dumpster.
With a strangled cry, I hurled the bag at it.
The force of my throw was too much, and the zipper ripped open, spilling its contents onto the pavement.
Books. Clothes. Old photos. A sound tore from my throat—raw, broken, somewhere between a scream and a sob.
It didn’t fix anything, but for a moment, it emptied me.
My body locked up, chest rising and falling, heart pounding in my ears.
Then I started picking up the pieces—his T-shirt, the towel, the textbook, and the concert ticket stub I’d once thought was romantic—and launched them, one by one, into the dumpster.
June stood a few feet away, silently watching.
Books soared through the air, their pages fluttering like wounded birds.
"Nellie, wait!" June’s voice was high and shaking.
She crouched in front of a thick textbook, its cover worn and bleached by the sun. As it hit the ground, it flipped open, revealing a hollowed-out core. Every page had been meticulously carved, and nestled in the center was a small, leather-bound book.
It must’ve been with his things all along, tucked away where no one would think to look. And unknowingly, I’d had it this entire time, too absorbed in my own grief to notice.
June’s eyes widened. "Oh my god, Nellie... Is this—?"
I didn’t need to open it to know.
The grimoire rested on the table like something alive, radiating a heavy, electric energy. My fingers trembled as I tried to untie the cord. For a second, I swore the book pulsed in my hands—watching. Waiting.
June’s questions came in a rush. "How did it—"
"I don’t know," I snapped, cutting her off.
She tried again, "But why does—"
"I said I don’t know!"
I finally pried open the small book, its yellowed pages releasing the musty scent of old paper. Hand-drawn illustrations filled the margins—grotesque creatures and arcane symbols that seemed to shift before my eyes, drawing me in.
The motel room door slammed open, and Mitchell and Nick staggered in, their clothes drenched in dirt, looking like they’d just crawled out of a grave. We’d broken our promise and called them, letting them know about our find.
June’s face scrunched up in distaste. "Are you sure you dug up just one grave and not the whole cemetery?"
Mitchell shot her a grim look.
June, momentarily distracted from the grimoire, continued her barrage of questions. "Was there a body?"
Mitchell’s expression darkened. "We barely scratched the surface."
"Then why are you both so filthy?" June pressed, eyeing their state.
Her brother shrugged. "Caretaker showed up. We hid in a mud pit for over an hour until he left. Didn’t find anything. And then you called."
Normally, I would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it all, but right now, my attention was solely on the grimoire.
"It’s on the table," I said.
Nick didn’t rush. He first washed and dried his hands thoroughly, and only when they were spotless did he move to the book, approaching it as if it were a relic pulled from a tomb.