Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Another week passes. Seven whole days without a single threat, letter, or black rose delivery.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I find myself wound tighter than ever, my muscles coiled with a tension that refuses to dissipate. The quiet feels wrong somehow—ominous rather than peaceful.
My shoulders stay perpetually hunched, braced for impact. My stomach remains knotted with an anxiety that no amount of deep breathing can unravel. Every moment of silence feels like the universe holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
I know Daniel. I know his patterns, his cycles, the rhythm of his unraveling.
When we were together, he'd be fine for weeks—charming, attentive, generous.
The perfect boyfriend. Then, like clockwork, every two months or so, something would snap.
A switch would flip, and suddenly I'd be walking on eggshells, waiting for the explosion.
It always started small. A snide comment about my outfit. A passive-aggressive remark about how I spent my time. Then the fights would escalate—he'd twist my words, gaslight me until I questioned my own memory, make me feel guilty for things I hadn't even done.
Sometimes he'd drink during those episodes. Whiskey, usually. Neat. He'd nurse it in his armchair, staring at me with those cold blue eyes, cataloging every one of my failures.
The breakdowns would last three, maybe four days.
Then, just as suddenly as the darkness descended, it would lift.
He'd emerge on the other side of those terrible days transformed—sweet again, tender, his voice soft with regret.
The apologies would flow like honey, each one carefully crafted to sound spontaneous, heartfelt.
He'd shower me with affection, pull me close, stroke my hair, whisper how sorry he was, how he'd never meant any of it.
He'd buy me flowers—always peonies, my favorites—and make elaborate dinners, setting the table with candles like we were celebrating something instead of recovering from his latest explosion.
He'd act as though the previous days simply hadn't existed, as if those cruel words and cold silences had been figments of my imagination rather than brutal reality.
I'd learned to recognize the warning signs. The tension building in his jaw. The way his politeness would become too controlled, too precise. The stillness before the storm.
But this silence? This complete absence?
This is new.
I pour coffee into Julian's favorite mug—the chipped one with the piano keys printed around the rim—and stare out the kitchen window at the grey winter morning.
Daniel's out there somewhere. Waiting. Planning.
I know exactly how this works—I've lived through enough of his cycles to recognize the pattern. Daniel doesn't just give up and walk away when things don't go his way. That's not how his mind operates. He never has, and he never will.
Instead, he retreats into the shadows, licking his wounds, nursing his bruised ego, letting the silence stretch out like a loaded weapon.
He regroups methodically, analyzing what went wrong, figuring out where his approach failed.
He strategizes with frightening precision, plotting his next move like a chess master studying the board.
And then, when he's ready—when he's convinced himself he's found the perfect angle of attack—he comes back. Always comes back. And every single time, he comes back harder, meaner, more determined than before.
The question isn't if he'll strike again.
It's when.
And what terrifies me most is that I have no idea what form his next breakdown will take. Before, I was the only target. Now he's expanded his scope—Julian, Reeves, the pool hall.
What's next?
"You're doing it again."
I jump, nearly dropping the mug. Julian stands in the doorway, hair disheveled, cast-covered hand resting against his chest.
"Doing what?"
"Catastrophizing." He crosses to me, kisses my temple. "I can practically hear your thoughts spiraling from the bedroom."
He's right.
I force a smile. "Just enjoying the quiet."
But we both know better.
The quiet never lasts.
I'm elbow-deep in sudsy water when my phone buzzes on the counter. The detective’s name flashes across the screen—the one I spoke to about Dylan's phone.
My stomach drops.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Singh.” His voice comes through the line, professional but edged with something I can't quite place—maybe exhaustion, maybe resignation.
"We brought Mr. Ross back in for questioning.
We've spent the last several hours going over everything again with him—all the details surrounding Claudia McAllister’s disappearance. "
I grip the edge of the sink. "And?"
"Unfortunately, the evidence you provided—the text messages—can't be used. Chain of custody issues. Without a warrant, we can't search his property, and we don't have enough probable cause to obtain one."
The words blur together. Can't be used. No warrant. Not enough.
"So that's it? You're just letting him go?"
"Our hands are tied. I'm sorry."
Sorry?
I end the call. Stand there, dripping dish soap on the floor.
All of it—every single moment of that awful party, the nerve-wracking act of stealing Dylan's phone right under his nose, the enormous risk I took sneaking into that house full of people who could've caught me at any second, all of it was for absolutely nothing.
The weight of it crushes down on me, settling heavy in my chest like a stone. I feel so utterly, completely helpless.
Daniel's still out there. Untouchable.
The bowl in my hand—my grandmother's ceramic mixing bowl—suddenly feels impossibly heavy. I hurl it at the wall. It explodes, shards skittering across the tile like shrapnel.
"Liza!"
Julian rushes in, eyes wide, surveying the damage.
"They can't touch him." My voice cracks. "They questioned him and just let him walk away."
"Okay, but destroying the kitchen won't—"
"Don't." I point at him, hands shaking. "Don't tell me to calm down."
"I'm not. I'm just saying we need to think rationally—"
"Rationally?" I laugh, sharp and bitter. "Daniel broke your hand, Julian. He terrorized me for months. He might've done something to Claudia, and the cops just shrug and say their hands are tied?"
He reaches for me with his good hand. "I know you're frustrated—"
"Frustrated?" I step back from him, my whole body trembling with a volatile mix of rage and fear that threatens to consume me entirely.
"You think that's what this is? Just me being frustrated?
" My voice rises despite my best efforts to control it.
"Julian, our lives are at stake here. Our actual lives.
Don't you understand that? Don't you see what's happening? "
I press my palm against my chest, feeling my heart hammering wildly beneath my ribs. "This isn't over—not even close. Daniel isn't going to just disappear because the police asked him a few questions. He's not done with us. He's never going to be done."
"So what do you want to do? Track him down yourself? Confront him?"
"Maybe I should!"
"That's insane, Liza. You're not thinking—"
"Stop it!" I whirl on him, my voice cracking as I shout. "Just stop telling me how I'm supposed to think, how I should feel! You don't get to do that!"
The words catch in my throat as the realization crashes over me like a wave of ice water. This is exactly what Daniel wants, isn't it?
He wants to wedge himself between Julian and me, to create this distance, this discord.
He wants to tear us apart from the inside out, to make us turn on each other when we should be united against him.
That's his game, his twisted method of maintaining control even from afar.
But I won't give him the satisfaction—I refuse to let him win that way, refuse to let him destroy what Julian and I have built together.
I snatch my jacket off the back of the chair with shaking hands, my movements jerky and uncoordinated as adrenaline courses through my veins.
My fingers fumble with the fabric for a moment before I manage to pull it on, the familiar weight of it settling across my shoulders like armor.
Then I'm dropping to my knees, shoving my feet into my boots without bothering to untie the laces first, forcing them on with urgency.
"Where are you going?"
"Out. I need air."
"Liza, wait—"
But I'm already slamming the door, leaving him standing in the wreckage.
I go out and walk for an hour, daring Daniel to come at me, the cold air stinging my face. By the time I come back, my anger's dulled to exhaustion.
Julian's on the couch when I finally return, sitting in the same spot where I left him, waiting. The broken bowl has been cleaned up—every single shard removed—and the floor is spotless, gleaming under the apartment lights as if nothing violent had happened at all.
"I'm sorry," I say before he can speak.
He stands, crosses to me. "No. You were right."
I blink. "What?"
"I've been downplaying it. Trying to stay calm, be rational." His jaw tightens. "But you're right. This isn't over. And I hate that you're living like this—looking over your shoulder, afraid."
My throat closes up.
"I should've listened to you from the beginning," he says, his voice low and earnest. "Instead of trying to fix everything, trying to smooth it all over like it would just go away on its own.
" He reaches up and cups my face in both hands—one warm and strong, the other awkward with the cast—his thumbs brushing gently across my cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. "I'm so sorry, Liza. I really am."
I kiss him. Hard. Desperate.
He responds immediately, his body moving into mine with an urgency that matches my own.
His good hand grabs a chunk of my hair, fingers threading through the strands and gripping tight at the base of my skull. He pulls me flush against him—body to body—until there's no space left between us at all. His cast presses awkwardly against my side, but neither of us cares.
The kiss deepens, grows more frantic, more desperate.
My hands find his shoulders, his neck, pulling him closer even though it's physically impossible.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathless and gasping for air, I look up to find his eyes have gone dark—pupils blown wide, that warm brown nearly swallowed by black.
There's heat there. And hunger.
“Bedroom," I whisper.