Chapter 15
CALEB
My heart is beating so fast I’m pretty sure I’m about to have a damn heart attack.
I tap my phone, the blue glow slicing through the darkness inside my car. Maeve’s message from Saturday night sits in the centre of the screen, taunting me.
Maeve: Can you come over Monday night? Need to talk. 1120 Nightshade Avenue, in case you forgot.
My brain almost exploded when I saw those words Sunday morning. For once, I woke up where I went to sleep—in my bed.
But I’m not stupid enough to think Asher has just vanished into the ether. That would be na?ve. Careless. I don’t trust him, and he’s part of me. Part of the deepest, darkest atoms of my being.
What the hell does that say about me?
Should I be worried of getting caught? Yes. One hundred and one percent. But Asher wouldn’t let that happen. He’s too smart. Too meticulous. I’ll give him that much.
Plus, it helps that law enforcement in this town won’t suspect the local veterinarian to be slicing people up. I don’t exactly fit the profile of a serial killer.
It’s almost a relief.
Almost.
So, this is a bad idea. A stupid idea. Maeve threatened me with scissors only days ago, and now she wants to talk.
And like the idiot I am, I jumped at the chance.
It wasn’t enough I had to come up with a great fucking story for Sarah. I thought about telling her Maeve had a mental breakdown, but then I realised, no, that is, in fact, me.
So, I opted for lover’s quarrel—it’s brand new, after all. It was pure luck Sarah didn’t witness the scissor incident. It’s bad enough she’s already suspicious of my strange comings and goings.
Right now, though, my focus is on Maeve’s front door. Should I knock? Should I drive away and pretend this never happened? That I was never here, lurking outside her house in the dark like a fucking creeper.
Her living room window casts a faint glow across the grass, a beacon in the dark. It does little to calm the storm brewing in my chest while her message plays on repeat in my head.
What if this isn’t just a talk?
What if she already knows something?
It could be a setup.
My pulse spikes harder, a pounding sensation setting up in my skull.
Maybe she’s already gone to the police, dobbed me in. And now she’s just giving me the heads up before they coming knocking on my front door.
Would she really do that, though?
There’s only one way to find out, I guess.
I kill the engine and take a deep breath, rubbing my palms over my jeans.
I’m going to regret this, aren’t I? I can feel it—the regret—already crawling under my skin, scratching at my already bleeding psyche.
But . . . she wouldn’t invite me over just to slit my throat. At least I don’t think she would. No, this is her reaching out. Maybe she needs me. This is a good thing.
It has to be.
I grip the door handle, my knuckles white, and shove the door open. The metal groans in the stillness of the night, too loud. I wince, stepping out of the car, and pull my jacket tighter around my neck as if that alone could ward off the cold gnawing up my spine.
The night air bites at my skin, intruding against my comfort. My shoes grind against the gravel, the sound echoing in the quiet. I pause, scanning the dense forest surrounding the house.
Jesus, she really does live in the middle of nowhere. Creepy doesn’t even begin to describe this place. There’s just silence here. Even the faint rustling of leaves, of something normal, does nothing to settle the unease clawing at my chest.
I rub my sternum and force one foot in front of the other. The lights from inside spill out, lighting a path to my demise. My left foot connects with the first rotting timber step leading up to the porch, and I shift my weight. The wood groans.
My muscles lock up. On second thought . . .
I’ll just leave now. She won’t even know I was here. She’ll think I stood her up because I’m that sort of guy, one who respects what she wants.
But what does she want? Me to stay away from her? Or to see me, to talk to me?
My hands fist at my sides, my chest tightening, squeezing all the oxygen from my lungs like a sponge.
I refuse to call it fear. I’m not that much of a coward.
The front door beckons to me, tugging at the invisible string that somehow connects me to Maeve.
Then there’s movement.
The shape of her shadow flickers past the window, and I dart forward. She’s right there, just on the other side.
I need to know why she needs me.
I knock three times. Seconds pass, and there’s nothing to be heard but the harshness of my breathing and the blood rushing through my ears. I knock again.
If she doesn’t answer this time, I’ll leave.
Finally, footsteps approach from the other side of the door, and the distinct sound of a chain being slid out of place has me straightening. I shove a hand through my hair and clear my throat.
Shit. What if she’s changed her mind and doesn’t want to see me after all?
Too late now, I guess.
The door creaks open, and Maeve appears in the gap, clutching the edge of the doorframe as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Jesus. Is she sick?
Her face is pale, her eyes red and swollen, and her hands tremble so badly she looks like she might collapse at any moment.
“Caleb,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse and raw. Her eyes dart past me, scanning the darkened front yard as if expecting someone—or something—else to be lurking. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked me to come over.”
She stares at me blankly, like she hasn’t got a clue what I’m talking about. Like she’s not entirely aware of what she’s seeing.
Oh shit. Have I totally misread her message? A wave of nausea washes over me.
Fuck, that’d just be my luck. Now I’m standing here, looking like a complete moron, and she’s going to think I’m some obsessed lunatic showing up at her door uninvited.
Great. Just fucking great.
Maeve blinks rapidly. “What?” she says, frowning. “When?”
She tilts her head as though she’s trying to piece something together, but the confusion on her face is real.
I wait, shifting on my feet like a teenage boy picking up a girl for a first date.
“Listen,” Maeve says, rubbing her forehead, the movement fast and jerky. “Now’s not really a good time. I’m just—” A sob cuts her off, and she slaps a hand over her mouth.
My chest constricts, heat racing over my body. All my instincts, every damn one of them, scream at me to step forward, to not leave her like this.
Before I can think twice about it, my hands are on her upper arms, my thumbs rubbing against her soft skin.
I bend to her eye level. “Hey,” I say, my voice low. “What’s going on? Did someone hurt you?”
She shakes her head, her whole body tensing beneath my hands. Her shoulders shake, and each breath she lets out shudders in uneven gasps.
I feel it, the exact moment she starts breaking apart. The pain. The anguish. It’s tearing me up, twisting my insides.
She wraps an arm around her waist, like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I’m s-sorry, Caleb,” she whispers.
I don’t think.
Just act.
I pull her against my chest, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other sliding up to cup the back of her head. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t resist. Instead, she clutches fistfuls of my cotton shirt and buries her face in the material.
Holding on.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, my lips against the top of her head. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Her breath stutters, the warmth of it fanning against the skin of my neck.
A few seconds pass.
Life hasn’t let me breathe, not since Maeve walked into my life, and Asher made himself known.
Right now, though, she’s all that matters. I can’t explain it. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not when she’s breaking apart in my arms. But something about her—her fire, her rawness—keeps pulling me under, and I don’t know if I want to come up for air.
A laugh escapes her, but there’s no humour in it. “It’s not,” she says, her voice muffled by my shirt. “Nothing is okay.”
What the hell has happened?
I step back, gripping her shoulders. “Is it Teddy?” My voice is harsher than I intend, and my pulse is still hammering. “Is he okay?”
Maeve nods, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “He’s fine.” The words are flat, hollow.
That’s not what this is about. This is worse, and I can sense the fear rolling off her in waves, like a pulsing heartbeat.
“Well, I’m not leaving you like this,” I say, massaging her tense muscles. “Can I come inside?”
She sniffs, giving me a small nod, and steps back. Her movements are stiff as she gestures for me to enter like it’s an afterthought. I follow her in, shutting the door behind me.
I come to an abrupt stop.
What the fuck?
It looks like a paper factory threw up in here.
Documents are scattered across the living room floor, overlapping in chaotic layers like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit. Even the coffee table is piled high with open notebooks, loose sheets of paper, and a laptop teetering precariously on the edge, one wrong move away from disaster.
Well . . . shit.
The air sits heavy, the kind of weight that sinks onto your chest and refuses to move.
Maeve doesn’t look at me. Instead, she paces through the mess like a caged animal, running a hand through her messy hair, tangling it even further. Her lips move, shaping words I can’t hear.
Muttering.
Fuck.
This isn’t the woman who stormed into my clinic that first day, full of fire, demanding answers, ones I couldn’t give her. No, this woman is a shell of that woman.
Breaking. Spiralling.
Like I did.
Like I still am.
Have I somehow managed to step into an alternate universe? For the first time in days, I don’t feel like the most unhinged person in the room.
And that? That’s fucked up.
Go figure.
I exhale slowly, stepping forward, each step cautious. “Maeve,” I say, voice careful. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
She stiffens, her back to me, her shoulders reaching for her ears, as though she senses danger. My entire body tenses.
Is she going to say something? Did she even hear me? Or is she too far gone at this point?
Ever so slowly, she turns. The look in her eyes almost brings me to my knees. I know that look. Intimately. I’ve seen it plenty of times in the mirror, at 3 a.m., when I’ve washed my hands raw and the blood’s still there, stained into the cracks of my skin.
Guilt. Fear. Desperation.
It’s all there, bleeding and exposed like a festering wound, twisting something deep inside me.
“I . . . I don’t even know where to start,” she says, her voice shaking.
She picks at the skin around her thumbnail, dried blood around the edges. Her gaze darts to the papers scattered across the floor, then back to me. She opens her mouth. Closes it again.
Her arms wrapped tight around her waist, she turns away, like she’s trying to keep her insides from spilling out.
“Maeve, you’re scaring me,” I say, my gaze darting over the mess once again. “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
This is ridiculous. If she will just open up to me, maybe . . . maybe I can fix whatever is wrong. Or at the very least, help her. Seeing her like this is torture.
With a glance over her shoulder, she exhales sharply. “You’re going to think I’m insane,” she mutters, more to herself than me.
I shrug. “We’re all a little insane. Try me.”
Her hands twist together in front of her, her fingers shaking as they knot and unknot.
Fuck. She’s really struggling.
How do I make this better?
And is that even possible?
She shakes her head, faster this time, like she’s trying to dislodge something from her skull. “I can’t. Caleb, I can’t.”
“You can.” I step closer. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”
I think.
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, biting hard enough to turn it white.
Then she looks at me. Really looks. “I . . . I did something,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Something . . .” She swallows hard. “Unforgivable.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I wait.
Her breath hitches, her shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for impact.
“I . . .” Her hands tighten into fists. “I killed someone.”
The words are barely more than a whisper, but they shatter the air between us as though they were screamed from the depths of hell.
My pulse kicks into overdrive, a steady hammering against my ribcage, but I force myself to stay grounded, to stay calm for her sake.
The urge to laugh bubbles up inside me. She’s kidding, right?
I blink. “You . . .” I shake my head. “What?”
She just looks at me.
My throat tightens, and for half a second, my body screams at me to step back. To run.
A sharp pain lodges beneath my ribs.
I suck in a shallow breath.
No. No, that’s not possible.
I thought?—
I thought it was Asher running around like the little psychopath he is. But what if . . .
What if I’ve been wrong this whole time?
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Okay, we can deal with this. We’re both insane. No problem.
I exhale and take another tentative step towards her. “Who did you kill Maeve?”
Oh Jesus . . .
Is the person still here? Did they break in? Hurt her?
Has she already disposed of the body? Is that—I swallow the lump in my throat—is that why I’m here? She needs me to help her chop someone up.
It’s an effort to keep my own hands from shaking, but I can’t lose my shit now. Not while Maeve is in the grips of . . . whatever this is. A post-murder breakdown? Is that even a thing?
A low chuckle slithers through my brain. “No. It’s not.”
I grit my teeth. Of course, Asher has to show up now, basking in the carnage like a goddamn parasite. If only there was a way to murder him. Now there’s an idea.
“Funny.”
I thought so.
But also, focus.
There’s a potential dead body I may need to help discard, and Maeve can’t see me arguing with myself. That would really push things over the edge. She still doesn’t know about me.
“I killed him,” Maeve whispers. “Dennis McCosky. He’s dead.”
Dennis McCosky? The . . . the ex-headmaster of the orphanage? Why?
Her confession hangs in the air between us like a noose. A wave of nausea floods my gut, the name sitting heavy on my chest, crushing me under the weight of what it means.
I clench my fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms, keeping me here. Keeping me in this moment.
She’s watching me, eyes wide, brimming with fresh tears. She’s waiting. Waiting for me to react. To judge her.
But who the hell am I to judge when I’m housing a literal psychopath inside me?
The truth is clawing at the back of my throat, demanding to be let out. I should tell her. I should rip the band-aid off now, before this goes any further.
But looking at her, at the way she trembles as she pieces herself back together, I can’t. She’s barely holding on. And what would I even say? Hey, Maeve, remember the guy who cut off Terry’s fingers? That was actually the other version of me. Surprise!
No fucking thanks. That would shatter her.
Instead, I rub the back of my neck, attempting to ease the tension there. “What happened, Maeve?” I say, my voice low, steady. “You can tell me.”
Do I really want to know? Isn’t it enough I have to deal with Asher’s indiscretions, now I’m taking on hers as well.
Bottom lip trembling, she shakes her head, hard enough that her dark hair falls across her face. “I went to his house,” she says, each word broken between chaotic breaths. “Dennis McCosky. I broke in, hoping he had information about Bethany, but . . .” Her voice cracks, and she hugs herself tighter. “He was already hurt. Crying. Bleeding. I-I don’t even know what happened. Memories flooded back, of the things, the things he did to me . . . I grabbed a letter opener, and then . . .” She performs the action of stabbing someone.
Hold up. What?
She grew up in the orphanage as well? Jesus. This just hit a whole new level of fucked up. Why didn’t she tell me?
It explains her familiarity, though. The orphanage. Not that I can place her face in any dark corner, or stark white hallway.
It doesn’t say much for my memory. Blank spaces fill those years where memories should be. It’s like someone has picked apart my brain and only put back the pieces I need to survive.
Maeve’s knees buckle beneath her, and she lets out a small whimper. I move instinctively, catching her around the waist before she hits the hardwood floor. She trembles in my arms, her breath coming out in short, uneven gasps.
“It really was a sight to be seen.”
I clench my jaw, resisting the immediate urge to punch myself in the face.
This has Asher’s stench all over it.
Maeve presses her forehead into my chest. Her fingers grasp at my shirt, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
“I didn’t mean to,” she chokes out. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
I tighten my hold on her, breathing her in.
Asher got to Dennis before Maeve. He was there. He watched her. But how the hell am I supposed to tell her that?
If she knew the truth—knew I let him loose while she was right there—she’d never look at me the same way again. I’d lose whatever fragile trust I’ve built with her in this moment, and maybe . . . maybe that’s the one thing keeping her from completely falling apart right now.
When Asher takes over, I become a passenger in my body—locked-in syndrome—screaming through a soundproof wall. When I wake up, it’s like someone’s blacked out the film reel, deleting the frames where something terrible used to be.
“It doesn’t make you a monster,” I murmur against the top of her head, the words bitter on my tongue. “You’re human, Maeve. And sometimes . . . sometimes we break.”
She pulls back, her eyes glassy, her expression torn between disbelief and desperation. “You don’t understand,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’ve ruined everything. I can’t even think straight anymore. What if someone saw me? What if they go to the police? I can’t go to jail, Caleb. I just can’t.” Her grip tightens on my shirt. “I need to find out what happened to Bethany.”
The way she’s looking at me, like I’m the one to save her, it’s everything. And so much more.
“I won’t let that happen,” I say, pulling her against my chest again, like I can hold her fears together just by keeping her here. “I promise no-one will find out.”
And I mean it. Even if I have no idea how I’m going to make that happen. I just have to trust that Asher will keep her safe in his own fucked up way. And that’s probably the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.
Trust a version of myself I have no control over.
She sniffs and looks up at me with those dark eyes of hers. They keep me frozen to the spot, sucking me right in. Her closeness is doing things to me, lighting up my body in ways long since forgotten.
“You promise?”
I nod. “Cross my heart.”
We’ve stood like this before, breathed our promises to each other. I know that, even if I can’t remember it. My memories are right there, tapping at the inside of my skull through a fogged glass window.
I know they’re there. I just can’t see them properly.
“Look at you. Playing hero while she falls apart.” Asher’s voice echoes in my mind, low and mocking like the arsehole he is. “Do you think she’d cling to you like that if she knew how pathetic you are?”
I inwardly groan, pushing his voice to the back of my mind. Maeve is trusting me, even if she shouldn’t.
And for now, that’s enough.