Chapter 61 Annalise
Annalise
I’m too tired to drive straight through.
One lonely, anxious night is spent at a hotel in the eastern panhandle of West Virginia, which ends up being a pointless pit stop, because I don’t sleep.
Not for a second. I toss and turn, spinning different scenarios over in my mind, missing his arms around me, and praying something horrible doesn’t happen during the few days that I’m away.
It’s after eleven when I pull into the parking lot with nerves in my throat and a tentative miracle zipping around my chest.
Before I head inside, I check my phone, responding to a handful of missed texts.
Chase: Text me as soon as you can. Hope you’re okay.
Kenna: All is well here. Tag made Michelin-star-level omelets. Did you know he could cook? Damn. Anyway, thinking of you. Check in soon.
Tag sends me a picture of his omelet.
It does look phenomenal.
Smiling, I shoot back a few love-laced responses and pocket my phone, then jog inside the gas station. The welcome chime greets me, soothing my anxiety for half a second.
Behind the counter is a familiar face—not the one I’m looking for, exactly, but it’s a start. A piece to the puzzle.
“Hello,” he says. “Are you…” His voice trails off when he looks up from his magazine showcasing old vintage cars. A frown furls. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, folding my arms over my puffer coat. “It’s me.”
“Filling up?” he wonders guardedly.
“No, I…I was actually looking for your daughter. Parvati. Is she working today?”
A curious headshake. “No. She does assist occasionally in her free time, but today she has a double shift at the hospital.”
My face falls. “Oh. I see.”
“Can I pass along a message for her?” He’s already reaching for a notepad and a pen.
“Well, I’d really like to speak with her. In person.” I bite my lip, my stomach pitching. “Do you think that’s possible? Does she take a lunch break or anything?”
He studies me for a beat, clearly confused. “Yes. Most days she eats lunch at a diner a few miles from here. Charlie Barker’s. Are you familiar?”
I blink, eyes widening. “I am. I used to work there.”
“I can send her a text message. Perhaps she can meet you.” He glances at his gold watch. “She goes on break in an hour.”
“That would be great. Please let her know I’ll meet her there. It’s important.” A mix of adrenaline and unease churns in my gut. “Thank you so much.”
“Annalise, right?” He presses forward on the counter.
“That’s right.”
“Is everything okay?”
No. Maybe.
God, I hope.
My lips tremble as I inhale a breath. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m hoping she can help me with something. Something big.”
He squints at me, trying to untangle my vague response. “Are you—”
“Do you believe everything happens for a reason?” I blurt.
He pauses, the question catching him off guard. The pen stills in his hand. “Sometimes,” he says slowly. “Other times, I think we just find the reason afterward. When we need one.”
I nod, the air swelling in the back of my throat. “I think I need one now.”
He watches me closely, his curiosity softening into something quieter. Almost like recognition. “I’ll text her now,” he says. “I’ll let her know to expect you.”
“Thank you.”
I turn to go, but he stops me with a quiet, “Annalise?”
I look back.
“If this has anything to do with what happened that night…” His eyes turn glossy through his wire-framed glasses.
“This isn’t about blame. I promise.”
“Then what is it about?”
I hesitate because there’s no clean way to say it. No way to wrap the depth of it into one neat sentence. “I’m trying to save someone,” I say, my voice teetering a whisper. “And I think she might be the person who can help me do it.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t press for more. “Good luck,” he replies gently, pulling out his phone.
I step outside, the cold biting through my coat, adrenaline still spinning in my stomach. The sun’s barely climbed above the trees, and it already feels like the most important day of my life.
I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her.
But I know who I’m doing it for.
And I know I’m not leaving without trying.
***
I try to make myself invisible as I slink back in the plush red booth, a freight train of old memories cannoning through me. I know he’s here. Working in the kitchen, sweating over hot stoves, barking at the staff as they try to keep up with never-ending lunch orders.
Tapping a fork against the tabletop, I glance around the diner, hardly recognizing any of the waitresses.
“It’s The Same Old Song” by Four Tops jingles from the jukebox, one of my favorites.
I’d play it every time I needed a pick-me-up, and Kenna would join me for a few silly dance moves, our laughter contagious as patrons watched and bopped along.
A half hour rolls by, and I order a coffee and a small plate of cottage cheese and peaches, barely touching my meal, too nervous, too buzzing, too terrified.
Swallowing, I shift my gaze to the double doors that lead into the kitchen.
I should probably say hello. If he spots me sitting out here for over an hour, coiled tight with nerves, he’s going to think I’m here to see him. To talk. To heal old wounds.
That’s the last thing I want.
Slowly, I rise from the booth. The fork clinks against the edge of the plate as I shuffle off the seat, shed my coat, and swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans.
This is just a quick hello—a courtesy, nothing more.
But when I round the counter and catch sight of the kitchen through the small square window carved into the swinging door, I stop cold.
There he is.
Alex.
Exactly as I remember him.
Red-faced. Jaw clenched. Shouting orders with that same sharp tone that always made me wince and wilt.
He slams a pan onto the stovetop hard enough to make the shelf above it rattle.
One of the younger cooks flinches. Another avoids eye contact altogether, head ducked as he preps a plate in silence.
I wait, watching.
Just to see.
Just to make sure I’m not projecting the worst onto him. That maybe he’s changed.
But no.
It’s all still there—that volatile, bottled-up rage that never had anywhere to go except outward. The cursing. The scowl. The anger he wears like armor and spreads like wildfire.
And suddenly I’m twenty-one again, back in that stifling condo, holding my breath while he stormed around the kitchen, pissed at the world and everyone in it.
I back away from the door before he has a chance to look up. My legs move on instinct, carrying me back to my booth. The coffee’s gone cold. The peaches look like they’ve melted into syrup. I leave a twenty-dollar bill on the table and disappear out the main entrance.
My hand circles my opposite wrist, massaging, rubbing away the memory of viselike grips and painful bruises.
I realize now that some people grow. Evolve. Shed their damage and learn how to be better, live kinder, and love softer.
Others stay exactly who they are.
And right now, I’m too focused on saving someone who wants to be saved than to waste a single second on someone who never did.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing outside the restaurant when a figure approaches on my left. I pivot around, catching sight of baby-blue hospital scrubs peeking through a billowing trench coat, and shiny black hair pulled up into a severe bun.
Two dark-brown eyes pan the entrance, doing a double take when they spot me gripping my cell phone so hard it might crack in my fist.
Parvati falters briefly, blinking with a trace of uncertainty. “Annalise,” she says, stopping just short of the doorway. “My father said you wanted to see me.”
Nerves tighten every muscle in my body. “I did. Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d… I didn’t know if you’d even come.”
“Do you want to talk out here?”
“Yes. Please,” I say quickly, glancing back at the glass doors. “Out here’s better.”
She tugs her coat tighter, but she doesn’t complain. Her badge is still clipped to her waistband, and there’s a faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes from sick patients and long hospital hours. But she looks calm. In control.
I don’t feel either of those things.
“I know this is strange,” I begin, pocketing my phone. “And I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I came here because…” I trail off, swallowing the raw truth behind what I’m about to say. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”
Her inky brows pull together, but she stays silent, waiting for more.
“It’s about Chase,” I tell her.
Cautious recognition flashes in her eyes. “I see.”
“He, um…he has a tumor.” Emotion swells, and the words fall out cracked, shards of broken glass spilling from my lips.
“A low-grade glioma. It’s centered near the optic chiasm.
They said it’s rare in adults, aggressive in the worst way.
He’s losing his vision fast. They’ve already ruled out surgery. ”
Parvati straightens. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“The doctors told him it’s wrapped around his optic nerve,” I go on. “So tight, they can’t even attempt removal without risking…well, everything. They said it’s twisted in all the wiring near the chiasm. That one wrong move would kill him.”
Her expression pinches with focus. Medical mode. “Yes,” she says quietly. “That area’s a minefield. A low-grade diagnosis doesn’t mean it behaves gently, especially when the location is that unforgiving.”
“I’ve been trying not to lose hope,” I admit, voice strained. “But I also can’t just sit back and do nothing. I love him. He’s everything to me. So I came here, hoping, praying that you might be able to help him. That you can do something. Anything.”
She sighs, her eyes never leaving mine. “Annalise, I don’t have the kind of experience to take on something like that. I’m still early in my residency. Neuro is incredibly delicate, and that part of the brain is practically sacred ground.”