CHAPTER 14
Joshua’s POV:
Mind and body are inextricably linked—a fundamental truth I reinforce daily to my patients. Yet for seven solid days, Ciara’s physical healing was my singular, consuming obsession.
Every morning at eight and every evening at nine, I sat her down on the edge of the memory-foam mattress in her bedroom.
Between my knees sat a small glass jar of custom-blended Arnica, lavender oil, and hypericum ointment.
I mapped every shade of yellow, plum, and fading indigo along her delicate right cheekbone with clinical precision.
My large, calloused hands—hands that spent hours every week taking detailed notes on human trauma and anchoring fractured minds—were as gentle as a summer breeze as I smoothed the cool cream across her jawline.
"Stop looking at me like I’m a case study in one of your dusty medical journals, Josh," she murmured on the fourth morning. Her full lips curved into that slow, dangerous smile that always made my heart do something utterly unscientific inside my chest.
"I’m evaluating tissue regeneration and localized cellular recovery," I replied smoothly, keeping my face stoic while leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against the corner of her swollen mouth. "And as your attending psychologist and self-appointed caregiver, I command you to hold still."
"Psychologist, huh? I don't remember seeing 'dermatologist' on those fancy framed diplomas hanging up in your office," she teased. She leaned her full weight into my chest, her warm fingers weaving lazily into the short hair at the nape of my neck. "You just like putting your big hands on my face."
"I contain multitudes, my love. And yes, touching you is a perk of the position," I whispered, resting my forehead against hers. "Does it hurt when I press here?"
"Only when I laugh at your terrible jokes," she shot back, her dark eyes sparkling with that stubborn, indestructible fire I adored.
Despite her humor, the physical recovery was only half the battle.
Her face returned to its smooth, flawless chocolate perfection by day seven, but the psychological residue of the break-in lingered like smoke in a closed room.
I caught the micro-expressions—the subtle tightening of her shoulders whenever a sudden noise echoed from the hallway, the way her eyes darted toward the front door every time the floorboards creaked.
Morgan was still at large. The police had swept her apartment building, dusted the shattered kitchen window for prints, and come up empty-handed regarding his whereabouts.
What they did find was three kilos of uncut cocaine stuffed inside Tesha’s bedroom closet.
When the heavy steel handcuffs slapped onto Tesha’s wrists, Morgan was already gone, slipping through the city like grease down a storm drain.
The coward had set his own woman up to take a massive federal charge while he fled across state lines.
He was a desperate, unpredictable rat—and cornered rats are the most dangerous animals on earth.
When Detective Jones dropped by Ciara’s place that morning, the air in the living room was thick with tension and the bitter scent of stale precinct coffee.
"We’ve alerted the federal marshals, and his mugshot is flagged across three state lines," Detective Jones said, pacing the length of the rug with her hands resting heavily on her utility belt.
"Right now, the safest play for both of you is to stay put right here, under our active patrol perimeter. "
I stepped up beside Ciara, sliding my arm around her waist and pulling her firmly against my side. "With all due respect, Detective, we’ve been trapped inside these four walls for a full week. My patient—and the woman I love—needs a change of environment. And frankly, so do I."
Ciara nodded in agreement, folding her arms across her chest. "Look, Jones, I appreciate you guys playing watchdog, but I am losing my mind cooped up in this house. Every time a delivery truck idles outside, my heart hits my throat. It’s been seven full days.
Morgan is probably halfway to Atlanta or tucked away in some dirty motel three states over.
I need trees, I need fresh air, and Joshua knows the perfect spot. "
Detective Jones stopped pacing, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You two are the most stubborn couple I’ve ever had to deal with. Do you understand that if you leave my jurisdiction, I can't guarantee a two-minute response time if things go sideways?"
"We won't need one," I said. My voice was quiet, polite, and completely devoid of inflection, but beneath it lay an ironclad certainty.
If Morgan were insane enough to track us where we were going, a police response unit would be the least of his worries.
He wouldn't be leaving in a squad car; he’d be staying in those woods forever.
Jones locked eyes with me for a long, silent moment, trying to read the unyielding stone behind my therapist's mask. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, reaching into her tactical jacket and pulling out a small, flat black disc.
"If you’re going, you’re taking this," Jones said, pressing the electronic tracker into my palm.
"Stick it onto the undercarriage of your Jeep.
It pings directly to my tablet every fifteen minutes.
You give me the coordinates of this cabin, you keep that tracker powered up, and you call me the moment your tires hit the gravel up there. "
"A reasonable compromise," I replied, slipping the cold plastic disc into my pocket.
The moment Detective Jones’s cruiser pulled away from the curb, Ciara grabbed her phone and headed into the kitchen to call her mother. I stood near the door frame, watching the way her denim shorts hugged her curves, enjoying the rhythmic, honeyed cadence of her voice as she spoke.
"Hey, Ma," Ciara said, leaning her hip against the counter. "Yeah, we’re heading out for a few days... No, Ma, not staying in town. Joshua’s taking me up to his cabin up by the lake. Just for some fresh air and a change of scenery."
Her mother’s voice erupted through the tiny speaker, loud and full of dramatic southern flare. "Oh, thank the Lord above! Child, you need to get out of that apartment before you turn into a hermit! Nature is good for the spirit. Put that fine doctor on the phone right now so I can speak to him!"
Ciara giggled, turning around and offering the phone to me with an amused smirk. "She wants to give you the official parental charge, Doc. Don't mess this up."
I took the phone, bringing it to my ear with a warm, respectful smile. "Good afternoon, Ma."
"Joshua, son," her mother said, her tone shifting from loud excitement to deep, protective earnestness. "I am trusting you with my heart walking around outside my body. You take care of my baby girl up in those hills, you hear me? And call me the very second y'all make it to that cabin."
"You have my absolute word, Ma," I said, my baritone dropping into a tone of quiet reverence. "I will guard her with everything I have. Nothing and no one is going to touch her while she’s with me."
"Amen! Y'all have a blessed trip, drive safe, and make sure my grand-babies... I mean, make sure y'all enjoy yourselves!"
"Ma!" Ciara yelled in the background, her face turning a deep, gorgeous shade of crimson as I chuckled softly into the receiver.
"We'll talk soon, Ma," I said, handing the phone back to a thoroughly embarrassed Ciara.
By early afternoon, the city skyline had dissolved in my rear-view mirror, replaced by wide stretches of open highway and the rolling green ridges of the mountain range.
Two heavy canvas duffel bags were stowed neatly in the back of my dark-grey Jeep Wrangler.
Tucked deep into the hidden interior pocket of my own bag, wrapped in an oil-slicked chamois cloth, sat my surgical stencil knife—a precision instrument with an ultra-fine, razor-sharp tungsten carbide blade.
As a therapist, my primary tool was speech.
But as a man who understood the violent capacity of human nature, I believed in total preparation.
I had no intention of using the blade. This trip was meant to be a romantic sanctuary for Ciara.
Yet, if the darkness followed us, I was more than prepared to dissect it.
I reached across the center console, resting my right hand on Ciara’s thigh, feeling the smooth heat of her skin through her denim. I tapped the touchscreen, starting our favorite driving playlist, and the smooth, hypnotic beat of Miguel’s "Sure Thing" flooded the Jeep's interior.
Ciara looked over at me, a soft, radiant smile spreading across her lips. She rested her hand directly over mine, her thumb stroking my knuckles. "You really have a thing for this song, don't you, Doc?"
"I appreciate absolute truths," I said, keeping one hand on the wheel as we rounded a wide curve. "And I appreciate hearing you sing it."
She didn't need any further encouragement. As the smooth vocals rolled through the speakers, Ciara began to sing along, her voice velvety, soulful, and completely captivating:
"If you be the cash... I’ll be the rubber band… Even when the sky comes falling…"
I joined in on the chorus, my deep baritone blending seamlessly with her sweet soprano.
We sang at the top of our lungs, the mountain wind rushing through the cracked windows, blowing away every lingering shadow of Morgan, the police, the hospital stress, and the violent madness of the past week.
For those two hours on the open road, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Yet, as the pavement turned into winding mountain roads flanked by dense walls of white pine and oak, my mind took a brief, involuntary detour into the dark vault of my memory.