Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
I walk into the foyer of Miranda’s house, clutching the police report so tightly the paper crinkles in my fist. In the sitting room, Miranda is dressed in workout clothes and has her phone pressed to her ear. She glances up, giving me that practiced smile while continuing her conversation.
“Yes, I’ll have the contracts reviewed by Monday... Mm-hmm... Perfect.” She ends the call and lowers her phone. “How was therapy, darling?”
I hold up the folded report. “Dr. Novak gave me this.”
Miranda’s eyes flick to the paper. “What is it?”
“The police report about my parents’ car accident.”
Miranda looks puzzled. “Didn’t you already have it?”
I shake my head, feeling small.
“Your social worker gave me a copy,” Miranda continues, walking over to the fireplace and stoking the flames. “When she had me sign those forms on the day she dropped you off here.”
My chin drops. “You had a copy?”
“Yes. I assumed you did too. Why didn’t you have it?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Alice, this car accident has consumed your life, and you didn’t have the police report?”
“I… I… couldn’t take it in.”
Miranda waves it off. “Oh, well. It’s all very morbid. I sure as heck didn’t want to read it.”
“Did you read it, though? You know, there was a truck?”
“And a lot of skidding.” Miranda shudders. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
I press the issue. “It wasn’t their fault. The report says so.”
Miranda texts on her phone, the glow of the flames lighting up one side of her face. “Yes, Alice, okay.”
“They weren’t at fault.”
“Enough.” Miranda looks up from her phone. “You’re getting yourself worked up. The report confirms what we already knew. Your parents were in a fatal accident. The presence of a truck, a storm, or a sharp turn doesn’t change the outcome. They’re gone, Alice.”
I gasp for breath. “Yeah, but…”
“No, Alice, don’t.” Her flattened palm stands in front of me like a stop sign. “Dwelling on how it happened won’t bring them back. You’re still here. How about you focus on that instead?”
“But they…”
“I want to move forward,” Miranda says bluntly. “I can’t live in the past. I already made that decision twelve years ago when I distanced myself from you all.”
“But we’re not distant anymore.”
“Correct. So can’t we be civil to each other?”
“I’m not…”
Miranda raises her phone to her ear. “I’m done with this conversation, Alice.”
Miranda’s running shoes thud along the hallway, leaving me, the report, and the crackling of the fireplace.
As I stare at the flames, a new set of footsteps enters the hallway. Heavier and familiar.
I look over my shoulder as Ryder appears in a navy button-down shirt and dark, ripped jeans. The chains against his chest glint in the light, and he holds a mug of coffee.
“Hey.” He takes a sip from his mug. “I heard the car drop you home. How’d therapy go?”
My hands move automatically, folding the police report into smaller and smaller squares. I shove it into my back pocket before he can see what it is.
“It was fine.”
Ryder stops mid-step, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies my face. “Fine?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I force my voice to sound casual and normal. “Just the usual therapy stuff. Talking about feelings and all that.”
He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t leave either. Just stands there with his coffee, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“You sure about that?”
“Never been more sure.” I paste on a bright smile that feels wrong on my face. “So what’s going on with you? How was last night at the Kensington house? Is it super fancy?”
Ryder’s expression doesn’t shift. He just keeps watching me. “Alice, what did Miranda say to you?”
The fake cheerfulness drains out of me instantly. “Nothing. We barely talked.”
“I heard voices.”
My spine goes rigid. “Were you listening?”
“I was in the kitchen.” He gestures with his mug. “Sound carries in this house.”
“Then you already know what she said.” I move toward the stairs, needing to get away from him and this conversation. “So why are you asking?”
“Because I want to hear it from you.”
I stop at the base of the staircase, my hand gripping the banister. “I said I’m fine, Ryder. Can everyone just stop asking me if I’m okay?”
“I’m not everyone.”
The quiet certainty in his voice makes me turn back to face him.
He sets his coffee mug down on the side table. “Alice…”
“Why do you care?” The words come out sharply. I want them to hurt and push him away before he gets too close. “You made it pretty clear when I got here that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Ryder flinches, but he doesn’t back down. “That was before I knew you.”
“Oh, so now you know me?” I let out a harsh laugh. “After what, a week? You think a few conversations and some piano playing means you know me?”
“I know you’re hurting right now.” His voice stays steady and calm. “I know something Miranda said got under your skin. And I know you’re trying to pick a fight with me so I’ll leave you alone.”
The accuracy of it steals my breath.
“Well, congratulations,” I say, my voice brittle. “You figured me out. So why don’t you just go?”
“Because that’s not what you actually want.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Then tell me.” He takes a step closer. “Tell me what Miranda said. Tell me what’s in your pocket that you’re so desperate to hide.”
My hand instinctively goes to the bulge of the folded report, and his eyes track the movement. “It’s nothing.”
“Alice.”
“It’s just…” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “It’s the police report about my parent’s car accident. My therapist gave it to me.”
Understanding floods Ryder’s expression. “You didn’t have it before?”
I look down with shame. “Someone probably tried to give it to me, but… but I… shut everyone out.”
“What did Miranda say? Did she want to read it?”
I shrug, keeping my gaze on the floor. “She already had a copy.”
“Oh.”
Ryder’s quiet acknowledgment hangs in the air between us. I feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. On the knots in the hardwood. On anything that isn’t him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is careful. “Or do you want me to distract you?”
The question catches me off guard. I look up and find him watching me with those patient, dark eyes.
“I don’t know,” I murmur.
“That’s okay.” He shifts his weight, as if he’s settling in for however long this takes. “We can just stand here, if you want? Or do you want to sit down?”
My hand is still gripping the banister so hard my knuckles have gone white. I force myself to loosen my grip and flex my fingers.
“What kind of distraction?” The question comes out smaller than I intended.
A hint of a smile tugs at Ryder’s lips. “I could make you watch me practice and bore you with music theory. Or we could watch that cooking show. The one with your mom’s favorite contestant.”
Something in my chest tightens at the mention of Mom, but it doesn’t hurt the way it usually does. “Connor,” I whisper.
Ryder nods with recognition. “Team Connor all the way.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit, my voice cracking with frustration.
Ryder’s expression softens. “That’s okay.”
“But I...” I pull the folded police report from my back pocket, staring at it. “I need to put this somewhere safe first.”
“Okay.” He gestures toward the stairs. “Lead the way.”
I climb the stairs with Ryder following behind me. When I reach my bedroom door, I pause, hyperaware that I’m about to let him into my space.
I open the door and step inside.
My room still doesn’t feel like mine. But my few belongings scattered across the surfaces make it slightly more bearable.
Ryder steps in behind me, and I move to my desk, opening the top drawer to tuck the report inside.
“Is that them?” Ryder asks, gesturing at the framed photo of my parents on my desk.
“Yeah.”
He picks up the frame carefully, studying the image. Mom and Dad, after a successful event, beaming at the camera.
“They look really happy,” Ryder says softly.
“They were. They were the best people.”
He sets the frame down gently, exactly where it was, and then his eyes land on something on the nightstand.
“What’s this?” He reaches for the small wooden music box, its surface worn smooth from years of handling.
“Just an old music box.” I take it from him, turning it over in my hands. The tape holding it together has yellowed with age. “It’s broken.”
“Can I see?”
I hand it back to him, watching him examine it with the same careful attention he gave the photo.
“I don’t even know why I brought it with me,” I say. “It hasn’t worked in a long time. It was one of those things my dad said he’d get around to fixing, but it just didn’t happen.”
Ryder inspects the damage more closely. “Life gets busy, I guess.”
“True. It would be nice if it were working, though. I got it for my sixth birthday, and I always loved the way it sounded. Kinda clunky and mechanical.”
“So it never worked well?”
“No, it did. It was just the way the cogs moved inside, making the music that always fascinated me.”
Ryder smiles. “Sounds like you could have figured out how to fix this if you enjoy the mechanics of it.”
I nod. “Maybe I could have. I just always prioritized schoolwork, so I never thought to do it for myself. I even turned photography into a job, doing it for my parents’ business.”
“Is that why they bought you such a fancy camera? It was a business expense?”
“Quite the opposite. They wanted me to put the books down and have adventures. I guess I just liked being around them. Family feels like home.”
He nods with quiet understanding. “And you’re still looking for that connection.”
“And realizing more and more quickly I won’t find it with my aunt.”
Ryder opens the base of the music box, peering inside at the mechanism. “I think we can figure this out together.”
I lean in closer, our shoulders brushing. “I hope we can get it working. It’d be nice to hear it when I’m going to bed.”
Teasingly, Ryder replies, “Is my music not good enough anymore?”
I inch backward as the blush prickles my cheeks.
Ryder looks back at the internal mechanics of the music box. “Just kidding.”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch as he settles onto the floor with the music box, completely absorbed in examining the tiny gears and springs inside.
“The winding mechanism looks okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “But this spring here is... yeah, it’s come loose.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Maybe. Do you have tweezers or something?”
I rummage through my nightstand drawer and find a pair of tweezers in my makeup bag. “Here.”
He takes them and goes back to work, his brow furrowed in concentration. It’s strange seeing him like this. Focused and careful. So different from the angry boy who yelled at me about broken equipment.
“There.” He winds the key slowly, testing it. Nothing happens.
His jaw clenches with determination, and he adjusts something else inside. He winds it again, and this time, a single note chimes out. Then another. The melody is halting, broken, but recognizable.
“It’s working!” I slide off the bed onto the floor beside him, unable to contain my excitement.
“Not quite.” He makes another adjustment. “One more try.”
He winds the key fully this time, and the music box plays. The melody flows out, slightly clunky and mechanical, just like I remembered.
I press my hand over my mouth as emotion floods through me. “You fixed it.”
“We fixed it,” he corrects, handing it to me.
I hold it carefully, listening to the familiar tune that I haven’t heard in years. The sound transports me back to my childhood, inside my bedroom, with Mom humming along while she braided my hair.
“Thank you,” my voice breaks on the words.
Ryder shifts beside me, and I realize we’re sitting very close on the floor, our backs against my bed.
“You okay?” he asks softly, warmth radiating from him.
I nod, still clutching the music box. “Yeah. I just... I didn’t think I’d hear this sound again.”
“Your dad would be glad it’s working.”
I wipe my eyes quickly. “He would.”
We sit listening to the music box wind down. When the last note fades, Ryder reaches over and winds it again without asking, as if he knows I need to hear it a little longer.
“This is what I wanted,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Earlier, when you asked if I wanted to talk or be distracted.” I look at him. “This. Just this.”
Ryder’s expression softens. “Then we’ll stay here as long as you need.”
The music box plays on, filling my cold bedroom with something that feels like home.