Chapter 4
Four
Kelly
Accidents happen … but this was not a mistake
My car still smells faintly like cinnamon from the box of leftover pastries I tossed onto the passenger seat before leaving work.
It should be comforting. Cinnamon always calms me.
Even as a kid, Mom used to make cinnamon toast when my anxiety got bad, saying the smell alone could slow down a racing heart.
Tonight, though, nothing slows it down.
My pulse is a wild, uneven drum against my ribs as I pull onto the main road heading toward the rental house I’m considering moving to.
I need a new space. One without memories of him in every corner.
The night’s taunt me. The feelings overwhelm me. My space is no longer safe because it’s filled with memories of him.
Unable to rest, I decide to go out and drive by the possible new home. A chance to be embraced by the night air to breathe. To untangle the knot in my chest.
Riot’s voice echoes in my head, gravelly and low. We shouldn’t be doin’ this anymore.
It wasn’t a surprise, not really. But surprises aren’t the only things that break you.
Sometimes it’s the stuff you’ve been bracing for. The stuff you know is coming. The stuff you still hoped might not even if you asked for it yourself.
The headlights behind me flare too bright, snapping me out of the thought spiral. I glance in the mirror. A truck. Close. Too close.
I shift lanes, expecting him to pass.
He doesn’t. He shifts with me.
A chill crawls its way up my spine.
Maybe it’s nothing. Just someone heading home from a late shift. Maybe they’re on their phone. Maybe they’re oblivious.
Maybe I’m anxious because today has been an emotional dumpster fire.
“Relax,” I whisper, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “It’s fine.”
But my stomach disagrees. It twists sharply, the way it does when something is off.
I turn onto the county road that cuts through the wooded stretch leading away from my place. Streetlights get sparser until it’s just my headlights carving a narrow path through the dark.
The truck follows. Still too close.
I try to rationalize. This road leads everywhere — toward the cabins, the lake, the back roads the Kings use for rides.
Just because a vehicle is behind me doesn’t mean anything. Except the headlights flash once, briefly, like someone tapping their brakes?
Or signaling? Or—My lungs seize when the truck suddenly speeds up, surging closer until its grill looms in my mirror like a monster’s mouth.
“What the hell—?”
I press the gas, heart pounding.
The truck accelerates too.
Okay. Okay. Panic hits me like cold water.
I’m not imagining this. This is real. Something is wrong.
I reach for my phone blindly with one hand, never taking my eyes off the mirror. My fingers swipe across the screen, but the phone slips from my grip, bouncing off the center console and hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Shit.”
I can’t reach it. Not without taking my eyes off the road. Not without slowing down.
The truck edges closer, the engine growling like something angry.
Then it hits me. Not hard. Not yet. Just a tap.
A warning.
A cold spike of fear slices through me.
“Stop,” I whisper, voice shaking. “Please stop.”
Another tap. Harder.
My car swerves slightly, tires gripping for stability. He’s playing with me. Or her. Or whoever is behind that glass.
This isn’t accidental. This isn’t random.
The realization floods me with a dizzy wave of horror.
I flick on my hazards, slam my hand onto the horn, hoping — praying — that someone, anyone, hears me. But there are no houses here. No cars. Just trees and darkness and the awful taste of fear on my tongue.
My throat tightens. My breaths turn shallow. A panic attack slams into me like a freight train — sudden, overwhelming, choking. My vision tunnels, the edges blurring. “No — no, not now.”
I force myself to inhale, counting like I’ve done a thousand times:
One. Two. Three. Four.
But the breaths won’t even out. My mind won’t slow. The terror is too sharp, too immediate, too real.
Then the truck pulls into the other lane beside me. It coasts there, matching my speed. I turn my head for a split second.
Dark truck. Dark tint. Shadow behind the glass.
My heart stops.
A hand reaches out the open driver’s window — gloved — gripping the door frame like he’s positioning himself.
“What do you want?” I shout, though I know he can’t hear me.
Or maybe he can. Maybe the fear is the point.
He swerves toward me.
I scream and yank the wheel right. My car jerks violently, tires spitting gravel as I fight to keep it on the road.
Then—The world erupts.
He slams into me full-force.
Metal crunches. Glass explodes. My head whips sideways, vision blurring white.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
The car careens off the road, fishtailing wildly before the tires lose their grip completely. Everything slows. Time fractures into pieces — sound splintering, light bending, my body weightless for one impossible second.
A thought flickers through the chaos:
I don’t want to die.
Then impact. A sickening crunch. Pain blasts through my skull. The world spins. Upside-down, right-side-up — I can’t tell.
My seatbelt strains, digging into my shoulder and chest.
My vision dances with black dots.
I think… I think I hear something. A voice? Or is that just my brain misfiring?
There’s a hiss something leaking. A crackle of electricity or fire or something worse.
I try to move. I can’t. My hands won’t respond. My legs feel distant. My head throbs with a pressure so intense it feels like it might burst.
I blink hard, trying to clear my vision. The world swims. My thoughts scatter.
Riot.
I should have—He didn’t—Maybe— I should have kissed him once more.
The pain swells, blinding, and everything inside me throbs with one instinct, don’t give up.
Stay awake.
Don’t slip.
Don’t let go.
But the shadows pull harder.
The last thing I feel is the cold brush of glass against my cheek and the distant rhythmic wail of a siren.
Not close. Not fast enough.
Then the world goes dark.
I wake to voices. Muffled. Distant. Floating.
“…blood pressure stabilizing…”
“…contusions on the left side…”
“…possible concussion…”
“…keep her under observation…”
My eyelids feel glued shut. I try to lift them, but they barely flicker. My head pulses with a dull, heavy ache.
A soft beeping nearby counts each heartbeat. A sharp antiseptic smell fills my nose.
Hospital.
I’m in a hospital.
A wave of nausea rolls through me as the memories come in jagged, broken flashes.
The truck. The scream. The impact.
I gasp, eyes flying open.
Everything is too bright. Too white. Too loud. A blurry figure leans over me. A nurse, I think. Her voice is gentle, soothing.
“Hey, honey. You’re awake. That’s good. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word seems foreign.
My throat feels raw when I try to speak. “Wh… what happened?”
“You were in a car accident,” she says, adjusting my IV. “You’ve been unconscious for several hours.”
Her tone is calm, careful.
Too careful.
Fear curls in my belly.
“I—” My voice cracks. “I need to call someone.” Things feel confusing. Like I should know something and this should make sense, but nothing feels right.
She hesitates. “Your emergency contact was already notified.”
My stomach sinks. “Who?” I whisper.
Before she can answer, footsteps echo in the hallway. Heavy. Familiar.
But I don’t know why they’re familiar. The door bursts open, and a man fills the doorway — tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, patched cut, eyes like a storm barely held in check.
He looks like someone carved him out of every bad decision I’ve ever been tempted to make.
He looks dangerous and devastated.
When his eyes land on me, something in his expression breaks wide open.
But I don’t recognize him.
He strides toward me, chest heaving, jaw tight, like he’s holding himself together with pure force of will. “Kelly,” he rasps, voice rough and thick with something I can’t name.
My breath stutters. His presence is overwhelming, yet familiar in a way that’s frightening.
The nurse steps between us instinctively. “Sir, I need you to stay calm.”
He barely hears her.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
I search my memory, my whole life, for a place to put him.
A name. A moment. Anything. There’s nothing.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Do,” I pause not wanting to upset him, “do I know you?”
He stops dead.
Like I hit him. Like I reached into his chest and tore something out.
His face goes still. Too still. Then, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it—he says:
“Yeah, sunshine.” His voice cracks. “You know me.”
I blink, confusion swirling. “I’m sorry. I don’t, I don’t remember.”
His eyes close for a split second, pain cutting through him like a blade. When he opens them again, something fierce, desperate, and broken flickers there.
The nurse touches my arm gently. “Kelly, you sustained a head injury. It’s possible you’re experiencing temporary memory loss.”
Memory loss.
My chest tightens. My breathing turns shallow again.
The man takes a small step forward, but stops when the nurse lifts a hand.
“Just tell me she’s okay,” he murmurs.
The nurse nods. “Physically, she’s stable. We are still assessing the extent of her injuries.”
He lets out a breath, shoulders sagging in relief — but his eyes never leave mine.
I try again. “Who… who are you?”
He swallows hard. “I’m Ledger.”
The name hits me like a foreign sound. Heavy. Loaded. Important. Except I don’t know why. I don’t know him.
But he looks at me like I’m his whole world.
And I feel deep in the hollow center of my chest that losing my memories might not be the worst part.
The worst part might be forgetting him. Whoever he was to me…Whoever I was to him… That connection is gone.
His voice breaks as he says, “I’m here. I won’t leave.”
And even though I don’t know him, don’t remember him , something warm flickers low inside me.
A strange pull.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Right.
Everything all at once.
My voice is small. “I’m scared.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second he looks like he’s fighting his own damn heartbeat. “You’re safe,” he says, stepping closer. “I promise.”
But promises from strangers are dangerous things.
And right now?
He is the most terrifying stranger I’ve ever seen, and the only one my body seems to trust anyway.