Chapter Nine #3
When he turned into the subdivision, he was startled by how much the neighborhood had changed.
It looked older. The fences weren’t quite as straight and white.
The oak trees that had been saplings when he and Autumn had moved in now towered over the sidewalks, their branches creating a canopy of green.
A few houses showed signs of neglect—sagging roofs and overgrown weeds—while others gleamed with fresh paint and colorful flowers.
The Hendersons’ blue colonial was now a cheerful yellow.
Yet in other ways, everything looked the same. Same winding lanes. Same front doors. Same suburban vibe.
Seth turned onto his former street, vaguely wondering if Mrs. Vacarro—the crazy cat lady—still lived in the corner house.
He remembered the way Autumn had saved leftover chicken for the strays, then sneaked out to feed them when she’d thought he wasn’t looking. A melancholy smile tugged at his lips.
Rolling past the Whitaker’s place, he arched a brow at the bright red tricycle, turtle-shaped sandbox, and the assortment of toys scattered across the front lawn.
Either the contentious couple who used to have screaming matches regularly—often involving the cops—had worked out their issues or a different family lived there now.
Seth saw subtle changes everywhere. Grimly, he realized that while he’d spent the last eight years frozen in the aftermath of that grisly Christmas Eve, the rest of the world had kept on spinning.
When his old house came into view, a sudden arctic wave swept up his body, chilling his veins. Conversely, he started to sweat.
The craftsman-style ranch looked eerily preserved—exactly as he remembered.
Fresh paint kept the exterior a warm cream.
The gutters were clean. The lawn neatly trimmed.
But the flower beds Autumn had once spent hours tending no longer exploded with riotous color.
Instead, practical perennials his mother must have chosen dotted the beds—low-maintenance, sensible.
It looked like a house. Not a home.
As he pulled into the driveway, he saw faint scorch marks on the street and sidewalk. Dark stains that no amount of time or weather had been able to erase. Wounds that never quite healed…
Like me.
Drawing in a ragged breath, he stopped the SUV and killed the engine. He stared at the house—so familiar, yet so foreign.
Seth gripped the wheel with trembling hands and dragged in a rough breath, trying to gather his courage to leave the safety of the car.
When he finally managed to step from the SUV, his legs felt filled with lead. Each step toward the front door was a battle, raging between the part of him that needed to move on and the part of him that wasn’t ready to face his past. Or his future.
Ruthlessly, he shoved aside the memories and bit back a curse, wiping the sweat beading his brow as he tried like hell not to hyperventilate.
Focus. You have to fucking focus.
With that admonishment rolling through his head, he fished the key from his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly he fumbled it, nearly dropping it on the weathered porch boards.
Christ, get it together.
He steadied his grip and lined up the key with the lock. It scraped against the plate—once, twice. His heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cool September air.
Third try. The tumblers finally turned.
Seth gripped the knob, his palm slick, and pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked—a sound he’d heard a thousand times but had forgotten until this moment. He stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the stillness.
He froze.
Holy fuck.
The air was thick and stale, undisturbed for years.
Dust motes drifted in the slanted light filtering through the curtains Autumn had picked out—cream with delicate blue flowers.
The Christmas tree and presents he remembered from that final night were gone, packed away by someone who’d cared enough to erase the holiday but not enough—or maybe too broken—to change anything else.
The floors were clean. No dust on the furniture. His mother had meticulously maintained this place, preserved it like an exhibit of a life that had ended.
But everything else remained exactly as he’d left it.
Tristan’s baby swing still sat in the corner of the living room, its bright primary colors now faded with time.
The bassinet was beside the couch where Autumn had often curled up to nurse him while watching late-night TV.
A toy basket brimming with stuffed animals sat at the base of the coffee table—toys his son never had the chance to outgrow.
Seth forced himself to move deeper into the house, his footsteps hollow on the hardwood. He needed to assess what repairs were necessary. Check for water damage. Note what furniture could be sold or donated. Make a list.
Stay clinical. This is just a job.
He forced himself to look at the house with a cop’s eye instead of a grieving man’s. The caulk around the front door had cracked. A faint water stain spiderwebbed near an air vent in the hallway ceiling. He added roof inspection to the list. The couch and chair could be donated.
In the kitchen, the fridge still hummed when he opened it, but it needed a good cleaning before listing the place.
Tristan’s bouncy seat still sat on the table, the cheerful jungle animal pattern now sun-bleached where the light had hit it year after year.
Seth could see it so clearly—Autumn moving around this space, singing off-key while she cooked dinner.
Tristan kicking his chubby legs in that very seat, making those soft baby sounds, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
Like his daddy was his whole world. Like his daddy would protect him from anything.
Seth’s chest constricted. His vision blurred at the edges.
No. Hold it together, goddamnit.
He turned away, forcing his legs to carry him down the hallway. The nursery door was closed. He should open it. Check for mold, water stains, structural issues.
His hand hovered over the knob.
He couldn’t do it. Not yet. But he’d have to deal with Tristan’s things…later. Somehow. But he couldn’t picture dismantling his boy’s nursery, couldn’t imagine removing a few keepsakes from his past life and walking away for good. That’s what needed to happen but…
Fuck.
For now, he moved to the master bedroom. The bed was made, the room neat. The closet door stood ajar, and he could see Autumn’s clothes still hanging there. Dresses she’d never wear again. Shoes she’d never slip into.
In the corner, near the window, sat the rocking chair where he’d held Tristan those first exhausting nights home from the hospital.
The image slammed into him with brutal clarity: Autumn in her pink dress with the daisies, exhausted but glowing, watching him cradle their son wrapped in that soft blue blanket.
The weight of Tristan in his arms. The fierce, terrifying love that had consumed him.
The promise he’d made to keep them safe.
He could see it so clearly now—carrying Tristan through that front door for the first time.
Autumn trailing behind, her hand on his arm, both of them giddy yet anxious.
Tristan had been oblivious to the momentous occasion, fast asleep beneath the blue blanket Grace had knitted for him.
Seth remembered unlocking the door, thinking he was the luckiest bastard alive, as the September sun warmed his back.
September.
Seth’s heart stuttered.
Tristan would have turned nine next week.
The realization sucker-punched him in the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Nine years old. His son would have been old enough for little league, soccer, football. Old enough to enjoy skateboarding, riding his bike, playing video games, building Lego cities with those small, careful hands.
What would he have looked like? Would he have had Autumn’s dark curls or Seth’s own dusty blond hair?
Would he have been tall, like the Coopers?
Or short and small-boned like his mother?
What would he have dreamed of being when he grew up—an astronaut, construction worker, professional athlete, or a cop like his father and grandfather?
When would he have cut his first tooth? Taken his first steps? Spoken his first word? Gone to his first day of school?
He’d never know. All the answers to his questions—along with every memorable milestone—had been brutally and heartlessly stolen from his life.
Because of me.
Seth’s chest caved in. His knees buckled.
A strangled sound tore from his throat—half sob, half roar. The room spun. He couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in, the air too thick, too heavy with ghosts and guilt and the suffocating weight of everything he’d lost.
He had to get out.
Seth stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the doorframe. He barely felt it. His vision tunneled as he lurched down the hallway, past the nursery he couldn’t face, past the kitchen with its cheerful bouncy seat and memories of off-key singing.
His hands slammed against the front door. He wrenched it open and burst onto the porch, gasping for air like a drowning man breaking the surface.
He needed to fucking leave here. Right now.
With impatient hands, he locked the house as if it could lock away his memories.
Then he hauled ass to the SUV, shoved the key in the ignition, started the engine, and peeled out of the driveway.
Tires squealing, he barreled down the street, out of the neighborhood, and out of the little town he’d once thought was perfect.
By the time he reached the highway, the small measure of progress he’d felt while holding Anna—the fact that he hadn’t completely freaked out—felt meaningless now, crushed under the weight of his oppressive guilt.
He wasn’t over his fucking past.