Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brandi stood under the walkway’s canopy, hidden in the shadows of the B a constant throb that flared each time she shifted. Her head pounded beneath the surface, as if every heartbeat cracked through bone.
The room smelled like old cedar and lavender sachets tucked in forgotten drawers. The air was cool and slightly damp from the rain, making her skin prickle beneath the oversized hoodie she hadn’t bothered to take off. It clung to her, damp at the collar where tears had soaked through.
She couldn’t cry in front of them. She never did. But alone? Alone, she broke.
Rolling to her side, she curled into herself on the well-worn rug that covered the room’s hardwood floor. The fibers scratched against her cheek—rough, itchy, grounding. The floor beneath her was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. But she didn’t move.
Tears slipped free, trailing down her face, each drop hitting the faded rug with a soft pat, pat, pat. The sound echoed off the walls, impossibly loud in the silence, like the room was listening.
She buried her face in the rug, breathing in the musty scent of dust, old wood, and faint smoke from the fireplace down the hall. Her fingers curled into the weave, clutching at it like it might keep her from floating away.
There was nothing else to hold onto. Nothing to ground her. Except for the memory.
Tool’s arms wrapped around her, warm and solid. His chin resting on the top of her head. The low rasp of his voice, thick with promise.
“Things are going to change, Brandi. I swear to you.”
And for one fleeting moment, she’d believed him. Had let herself lean into it, into him. Let herself feel safe. But that’s all it had been—a single moment in time. And now it was gone.
The silence pressed in from every corner of the room, heavy and suffocating. The kind of silence that wrapped around you and whispered, You’re still alone.
And this time, she didn’t fight it.