Chapter 27
I woke to pale light seeping through soft curtains, the kind of light that blurs the edges of everything and makes the world feel far away.
For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.
The ceiling wasn’t mine. The sheets smelled like home, like Mom's homemade laundry detergent and something warm and familiar, but my chest constricted as if I couldn’t breathe.
I turned my head slowly, and that’s when I saw her.
Clara.
Curled on her side, tucked close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. Her hand rested between us, like she’d reached for me in her sleep and never let go.
I stared at her, memory breaking apart in uneven fragments: Andrew’s hands, Brody’s roar, flashing lights, voices shouting my name, the flash of a camera. I couldn’t remember the drive home. I couldn’t remember who brought me.
Clara stirred, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, before her gaze locked on mine.
“Cassidy.” Her voice cracked like glass breaking.
She sat up halfway, cupping my face in shaking hands.
“God, I was so scared.” Her tears spilled fresh, dropping onto my skin as she pressed her forehead to mine.
“I thought...” She choked on the words. “I am so sorry this happened to you. How are you feeling?”
I swallowed hard, but nothing came out. My throat was tight, my chest hollow. I didn’t know what to do with her fear. I didn’t know what to do with mine.
She kept talking, broken pieces of sentences tumbling out.
“Chase called… Dad and Mom ran out the door. I called, and all I could hear was dad yelling at the cops… Mom said you were safe, but you weren’t talking, and I couldn’t get to you fast enough.
I had to stay with Jackson. I had to sit here and wait for them to bring you home. ”
I caught her wrists gently, lowering her hands from my face. “Clara,” I whispered, my voice splintering around the sound. “I’m here.”
Her eyes searched mine, like she didn’t quite believe it.
I wasn’t sure I believed it either.
I pushed myself upright slowly, my body stiff and sore, though I couldn’t remember being hit or falling. Everything felt distant, muted, like I was underwater watching someone else’s life play out.
Voices drifted from somewhere downstairs, low, steady, the cadence of people planning, deciding. Every so often, my mom’s voice cut through, sharp and controlled, the way she got when she was trying not to unravel.
“…restraining order…”
“…the lawyer’s on it…”
“…pressing charges…”
Each word landed heavily, but they barely made sense.
I drew my knees up to my chest, burying my face for a moment, willing the pieces of myself to click back into place. They didn’t.
Clara touched my shoulder gently. “They want to talk to you about next steps. The cops. The lawyer. All of it. But if you’re not ready...”
I laughed softly, the sound broken and humourless. “I don’t even know what ready would feel like.”
She leaned in and rested her forehead on my shoulder, her voice muffled. “You don’t have to do any of this alone. We’ll handle it. I promise.”
I nodded because it was easier than speaking, even if the promise slid right through me.
Somewhere deep inside, where it was quiet and still, I thought about last night, about Andrew’s words, his grip, the way the air had been ripped from my lungs. The memories kept flashing like a slideshow I couldn’t stop. My brain kept trying to reorder them, make them make sense, but it couldn’t.
I closed my eyes and focused on Clara’s breathing beside me, grounding myself in the sound, in the rhythm. It tethered me for a moment, held me steady when everything else felt like quicksand.
I felt her shift closer, pulling me into her. "When you are ready to talk about what happened, I am here. I will always be here for you, ok."
But as I lay there, safe in my parents’ house, wrapped in my sister’s arms, one thought circled endlessly:
I wasn’t safe yesterday.
I wasn't ok.
And I didn't know how to get past this feeling.
I must have fallen asleep again, because when I opened my eyes, the light was warmer. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten yesterday. But I didn't feel hungry; I felt numb.
I dressed in silence, moving on autopilot, pulling on an oversized hoodie and soft joggers. I didn’t want to look at myself, didn’t want to see… but when I reached for my socks, the hem of my hoodie rode up, and there they were.
Bruises already blooming along my hip where Andrew’s grip had been, angry fingerprints forming along my wrist, my jaw...
I closed my eyes and tried to choke down the tears that were threatening to spill.
Voices rose faintly from downstairs, sharp edges cutting through the otherwise quiet house. At first, I thought it was my dad and Chase arguing, but as I moved closer, footsteps light and unsteady, I caught a deeper voice. Stricter. Colder.
Two police officers stood in the living room. One was young, notebook in hand, eyes scanning everything like he was memorizing it. The other… older, broad-shouldered, his uniform worn in, the kind of man who’d lived in this town too long.
“…no need to fight,” the older officer said, holding up a hand when my dad’s voice sharpened. “Here she is.”
His gaze landed on me, sweeping over my frame in a way that wasn’t unkind, but still made something twist in my gut.
I heard a gasp from my mom, and instinctively, I pulled the collar of my hoodie up to my chin, trying to cover the bruise.
“We came to follow up, Ms. Morgan,” he said evenly. “Just a few questions.”
I hesitated, glancing at my family, all tense shoulders and white-knuckled fists, before lowering myself onto the edge of the couch. Clara slid in beside me, her knee pressed against mine.
“You should have your lawyer present,” my dad said flatly, already reaching for his phone.
The officer exhaled through his nose, ignoring him. “Mr. Brooks was released this morning into his family’s custody. His wife and her parents came to pick him up.” His eyes flicked back to me, and something in them hardened. “They had… a few things to say.”
My stomach dropped, but before I could answer, Chase beat me to it. “What things?”
He folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe like he was settling in for a lecture.
“They claim you’ve been causing problems for months.
That you seduced Mr. Brooks. That you pressured him into leaving his family and filing for divorce.
That's when he told you he wasn’t leaving his wife after all; you threatened to ruin his life if he didn’t stay with you.
That these charges…” he gestured vaguely toward me, “…are being fabricated to punish him.”
A sound broke from Clara, hard and furious. “That is bullshit, and you know it!”
The officer’s face didn’t change. “Victoria Brooks is well-known in this community. I’ve known her family my whole life. She’s worried about the stress this is putting on her, especially being pregnant...”
“Don’t you dare,” my dad cut in, his voice like a whip. “Don’t you dare stand there and imply my daughter is to blame for what happened last night or responsible for Victoria or her pregnancy.”
“Sir...”
“No,” he barked, stepping forward. “Andrew Brooks has been harassing Cassidy for months. He’s shown up at her apartment.
He’s called her from multiple numbers. She’s had to change her locks and her phone number.
He cornered her at the pub; there are witnesses, for God’s sake.
And last night, there were witnesses to that too, the men who had to step in and pull Mr Brooks off my daughter.
Not to mention, there are marks on her body.
We have photographs. The tear in her shirt, how.
... how she was found..." His voice cracked, but he didn't stop.
"Do not stand here and tell me my daughter made this up.”
Everyone was shouting over each other: my dad, Clara, Chase, and the younger officer trying to mediate, and all I could do was sit there, my nails digging into the fabric of my hoodie, breathing too shallowly to feel real.
“Cassidy,” my mom’s voice cut through faintly, reaching for me, but I couldn’t seem to move.
The older cop, whose name I hadn't heard, cleared his throat and asked. "Are Brody Palmer or Mason James here currently?"
I felt Clara stiffen next to me, and my eyes shot up to meet the cop's dark, cold stare.
"No, they are not here. What does that have to do with anything? They gave their statements last night." My Dad replied.
The cop answered my dad, but his eyes never left me, "The Brooks are considering filing charges of their own. Assault charges against Mr. Palmer and Mr. James..."
I knew he was still talking, but the ringing in my ears was too loud, was he saying what I thought he was saying...
Chase's angry voice cut through "... better not be what you are implying. The force used to protect my sister was not excessive. Brody reacted like anyone else would have in that situation..."
I felt like I couldn't breathe. This had to be some cruel joke. I would wake up and be back in my apartment, ready to pack up and come home... I would....
Was I being punished?
Then, out of nowhere, the lawyer walked in, summoned, apparently, by my dad. He lived close, and the minute he stepped into the chaos, his voice sliced through it clean.
“Not another word,” he said sharply, his briefcase snapping open. “Ms. Morgan isn’t answering any more questions without me present.”
The argument kept going. Loud, heated, filling the air until it felt like there wasn’t enough space to breathe.
And I… couldn’t.
I stood up quietly, like my body was moving without permission, and started up the stairs. Someone called my name, maybe Clara, maybe mom, but I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Back in my room, I shut the door and crawled onto the bed, curling into myself until my forehead touched my knees.
I closed my eyes and willed the noise away.
I just needed everything to stop.