Chapter 18 The Sole Caregiver
the sole caregiver [trope]
the overburdened, fiercely responsible hero(ine) who has been carrying the weight of the world on their own tired shoulders for far too long; prone to emotional walls and martyr tendencies, the sole caregiver has no time for romance—until someone determined enough breaks through their defenses and reminds them they’re allowed to want something for themself
The recording room at the Booked It office is colder than usual, the hum of the air conditioner filling the Wednesday silence. Perched on the chair, I sit drumming my fingers against the table.
I’ve been here for over an hour, staring blankly at the screen of my laptop, the pictures tucked away in my bag.
I keep pulling them out to study them, hoping I’ll see something new if I check just one more time. But Rafael’s still there, and I still can’t make sense of it.
I tap on the mic in front of me, the empty chair across the table impossible to ignore. Celeste said Theo would meet me to record the episode for Passion & Pages at two, but that was twenty minutes ago. After Saturday night’s fight, what if he doesn’t show up?
The cursor blinks on my screen, and I tap my fingers on my paperback copy of The Darkened Stacks. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read—predictable in parts, rushed in others—but it’s perfect for one reason: a murder in the local library.
And Willowbrook only has one library.
If only Theo agrees to let me rerecord tomorrow’s episode of Murders & Manuscripts last minute instead of the episode for Passion & Pages, the killer will be exactly where I want them, and this time, I’ll be there, too. I’ll be ready.
In the meantime, I’ve convinced myself that Rafael isn’t behind this, that there must be another explanation.
But doubt keeps gnawing at me. What if I’m wrong?
What if it is him? The way he dodges questions about his job, how cagey he is about his past and his father—it’s hard to ignore.
Quentin stabbed the killer’s arm, and Rafael’s arm was bandaged.
And Theo is right, he resurfaced exactly when the killer struck for the first time, then vanished again right before the second murder.
Throat thickening, I try to banish the thought. No. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
The door creaks open, and my heart skips. Theo is there, standing in the doorway, looking hesitant. His black-framed glasses catch the light before he steps inside, closing the door softly behind him.
“Hey,” I say, wiping my arm over the table to clean up the crumbs left by my Pop-Tart.
He walks over and slides into the seat. His broad shoulders hunch slightly as he leans forward, trying to make himself smaller in the too-narrow chair. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic from New Haven was a bitch.”
“No worries.” Neither of us speaks, and I can’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes again. “Fair warning,” I say, tapping my laptop. “It might take me a while to get it right.”
“That’s okay. It’s your first episode.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We sit in the silence that follows, the hum of the air conditioner suddenly louder than ever.
He shifts in his seat, dropping his worn canvas bag onto the floor with a dull thud.
A hotel key card slips out and skitters across the linoleum, coming to rest against the leg of the table.
He snatches it up quickly, tucking it back inside without a word, but the tips of his ears go red.
Recognizing the orange logo, I ask, “Are you staying at the Wildflower Inn?”
“Hmm? N-no.”
“Oh, I thought that was—”
“Give me just a second to set up and we can start.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell if he’s upset or hiding something. Why would he have a room at Willowbrook’s only hotel? Is he having issues with his apartment?
My phone buzzes on the table.
Rafael
Drunk-cuddling, then leaving me on read for days? And here I thought we had something special.
I set the phone on silent and put it down, trying to hide my flustered expression.
Fuck this. I need Theo’s help, so whether or not he’s upset, I’ll have to just come out and say it.
“I want to apologize about Saturday night,” I blurt out.
“Apologize?” He shakes his head, the chair creaking softly under his movement. “Scarlett, I was way out of line.”
“No, you weren’t.” My fingers nervously trace the edge of my coffee cup. “You’re one of my best friends, and you were concerned. I should have listened to you.”
“Well—what do you mean? Did something happen?”
“No,” I blurt, perhaps a bit too quickly. Nothing happened, and nothing will happen, because Rafael isn’t behind these murders. “I just… I could use your help.”
“Whatever you need,” he rushes out.
Exactly what I hoped he’d say.
“Instead of the Passion & Pages episode, I want to rerecord tomorrow’s Murders & Manuscripts.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Why, is there something wrong with the original?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I decided to rewrite the script, highlight another book instead.”
“Oh?” He glances at my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Is it written already?”
“Yes.” Though it’s probably shit, since I wrote it in two hours. “The problem is, Celeste hasn’t exactly approved. Because I didn’t tell her.”
“What?” He swivels slightly, the wheels of his chair whispering on the carpeted floor. “Why not?”
Because I know exactly what she’ll say. Not enough money to rerecord, not enough time—and besides, she’ll want to know why.
“Look, I know it’s a lot to ask,” I say, hands flat against the table. “But I can’t afford her saying no. It’s really important that I rerecord the episode.”
“But—”
“You can’t ask me why.”
Theo’s mouth closes, his jaw tightening. I must be freaking him out. Hell, I’m freaking myself out. But right now, I need him to trust me.
“I promise I’ll take all the responsibility. And I’ll buy you lunch. Or dinner. Or… something.”
His lips form a tight line. He knows Celeste too well to believe me. “I really wish you would tell me what’s going on. Can you promise me it’s nothing crazy or dangerous?”
“I can.” Probably. I’ll take precautions, of course.
“Okay.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I guess… I guess we can do it.”
Relief washes over me, so strong I’d like to squeeze him. “Thank you. Seriously.” I stand and grab a headphone set from a nearby hook, the leather padding soft and worn from use. “Let’s get to work, then. We’ll be here a while.”
He sets up the computers, and I move on to the recording station.
Step one of the plan completed. The easiest step, honestly. Step two? Catch a killer. If Rafael isn’t the murderer, everything will be fine. Tomorrow it’ll all be over. But if he is, I’ll stop him.
I’ll catch him in the act, back him into a corner.
And then I’ll put an end to Rafael Gray.
A quarter past nine on Thursday.
Tonight’s the night.
I’ve been dodging Rafael like a storm cloud. Calls, texts—even when he came over and knocked on the door, begging me to just let him know what went wrong and how he can fix it.
I let my heart take the hit, but I didn’t open the door. And now I’m ready for the truth. I’m ready to catch the killer, to find out if Rafael has been playing me since the beginning. And if he’s not guilty, then I’ll figure out how to make it up to him.
“One step at the time,” I remind myself as I put on my shoes and grab my pink Taser.
The drive to the library takes five minutes, and the episode won’t be aired for another half hour, but I’m not taking any chances.
I want to be there before the killer. I want them to find me there and know they’ve fucked up.
I open the door, jumping back as my brain processes that someone is standing there. “Jesus!” I squeal, clutching a hand to my chest, then immediately letting it drop when I notice it’s my brother. “You scared the shit out of me.” I catch my breath. “Is everything okay?”
He stands stiffly on the porch, dark blond hair sticking to his forehead like he’s been sweating on the bike ride here and a few fading bruises still yellowing along his cheekbone. “Y-yeah. Yes,” he stammers, glancing at his feet. “I was just about to knock.”
My heart is still racing. I glance past him, scanning the street for any sign of Rafael. The coast is clear, but I really wish Ethan and I could just go inside. I wouldn’t know what to tell Rafael if he came over.
And what is Ethan doing here tonight? I’d never send him away, but his presence at my door could derail the plan considerably.
“Actually…” Ethan pulls me back. He’s always been thin, but tonight he seems smaller somehow, shrinking into himself like he wants to disappear. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes, trying to find the courage to knock.”
The courage to knock? Why would he need to psych himself up for that?
The usual open injury pumps guilt into my bloodstream, but I keep my expression light. “Well, part one is done now, huh?”
He huffs a weak laugh, his gaze flicking to mine briefly before dropping back to the porch floor. “Yeah. I guess.”
My fault. My fault. My fault.
I glance at my car, parked at the end of the street, but the gravity in his voice—the way he’s holding himself like he might break apart—roots me to the spot.
“Come in,” I say gently, stepping aside to give him room. He doesn’t move, rocking on his heels. His sneakers squeak slightly on the worn wood. “What’s wrong? Whatever it is—”
“What’s the truth, Scarlett?”
My stomach tightens as I think of Rafael. The podcast. The murders. “Excuse me?”
“Why don’t you live with us? Why didn’t you come to stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s place with me?” His voice cracks just a little, betraying the sixteen-year-old under all that forced composure. “It’s their fault, isn’t it? They didn’t want you to move in.”
I inhale deeply, looking into his green eyes, too sharp and too knowing, just like Mom’s. “You have to understand, Grandma and Grandpa love you very much. They might not show it in the right way, but they do.”
He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “But they don’t love you? Why?”
“Well,” I start, choosing my words carefully, “they never really liked Mom. You know that.”
“So they didn’t take you in because you’re her daughter? I’m her son.”
“But you’re also Dad’s son.”
“And you’re his daughter. He adopted you. He loved you like—”
I grip his forearm, squeezing lightly. “I know.”
“You were just two years older than I am now, and they refused to give you a place to stay. It’s… it’s so fucked-up, Scarlett.”
Anger radiates off him, a fire that fills the small space between us. I step closer, cautiously reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “Come in. We’ll talk about it over hot cocoa.”
“I’m not a child.” He shrugs my hand off and starts pacing, his footsteps heavy on the creaking porch.
“This is… It’s just so typical of them. That’s who they are, you know?
Selfish bigots who only care about appearances.
And it only took me ages to figure it out because…
” He stops, turning to face me, his eyes blazing.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I blamed you for everything, Scarlett. ”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t want you to blame them. It was already difficult for you, Ethan. With Mom and Dad being gone, then losing me—it’s not like there was anything I could do. I thought if you didn’t resent them, things would be easier for you.”
He rubs his face with both hands, a sharp exhale from his lips.
“How can I love them when they don’t love my sister?
” He looks at me—really looks at me—desperate for an answer I don’t have.
I still don’t understand how two adults with the means to support their son’s adopted child would choose not to.
I still don’t get why blood matters so much to them when it bore no relevance to Dad.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I only did what I thought was best for you. I planned to tell you eventually, but I thought it could wait. Until you were older. Until you could choose for yourself.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, leaning against the wall. His shoulders slump, and he huffs out an insincere laugh. “I spent five years blaming you. I’m not doing it anymore.”
I playfully nudge him. “Well, that’s refreshing, isn’t it?”
He smiles, but it fades quickly, his expression turning solemn again.
“Scarlett, I can’t live there anymore.” His voice is low, almost pleading.
“I just… I hate them. They want to change me into the grandson they wish I was—maybe into Dad. But I’m nothing like him.
I’m not a model student, I don’t like their friends, and I don’t want to go to boarding school in Virginia. ”
“I know. I’ll do something about it.” I have no idea what to do, but I mean it. I’ll figure something out. I have to.
“They think I’m damaged. That there’s something wrong with me.” Tears slip out, though he seems to fight to keep them in. “I can’t feel like that anymore. I just can’t.”
“You’re not…” I pull him to me, holding him in a tight hug. Good God, he’s taller than me now. Taller than Dad was, too. “You’re not damaged or wrong. You’re yourself, and I love you. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”
He slightly pulls back, his gaze locking on mine. “I want to live here. With you.”
He… what? The world seems to tilt, and I stare at him, speechless. In the quiet, the faint chirping of crickets feels deafening. He watches me, waiting, and all I can think is I can’t deny this to him, no matter what it takes. I’m just not sure he realizes what he’s asking me to do.
His eyes fill with resolve. “Scarlett, I want you to be my legal guardian.”