14. Julian #2
“Are you okay?” I ask Ellie, my voice sounding distant in my own ears. The adrenaline is wearing off, pain replacing it in throbbing waves.
She turns to me, face paling as she takes in the gash on my arm. “Oh god, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, pressing my hand against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and sticky. “Check on Miles.”
The room tilts suddenly. I brace myself against the wall, leaving a crimson handprint.
“We need a medic!” Ellie shouts, moving to my side. “Now!”
Rick laughs from the floor, his face pressed against rough boards. “Always the hero, aren’t you? Saving her from the big bad wolf.” His eyes find mine, cold and calculating even in defeat. “But she’ll never be yours. Not really. I’m inside her head forever.”
“Shut up,” the officer growls, hauling him to his feet.
As they drag Rick toward the door, he calls over his shoulder, “This isn’t over, Ellie! Not by a long shot!”
An officer guides me to sit, examining my arm. “That’s going to need stitches, but you’ll live. Ambulance is two minutes out.”
Miles, finally free of his restraints, rubs his raw wrists. There’s a moment of awkward silence as he looks between Ellie and me, reality settling in. His ex-wife and her new boyfriend just risked their lives for him.
“Thank you,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “Both of you.”
Ellie nods stiffly. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Just my pride,” Miles answers, with a weak attempt at humor. “And my head. Bastard got me from behind.”
The paramedics arrive in a flurry of activity. One attends to my arm, cleaning and bandaging it temporarily, while another checks Miles’s head wound. Ellie hovers between us, torn, until I catch her hand.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Really.”
She squeezes my fingers, tears welling in her eyes. “This is my fault. All of it.”
“No,” I say. “This is Rick’s fault. Only Rick’s.”
The aftermath feels like a blur. The ride to the hospital, the stitches in my arm, the endless questions from detectives.
Through it all, Ellie stays by my side, her hand rarely leaving mine except when the medical staff forces her away.
Even then, her eyes remain fixed on me from across the room, as if I might disappear if she looks away for too long.
Miles is treated in a different room, his head injury requiring observation overnight.
I’m released after four hours, twelve stitches, and a tetanus shot.
The detective who takes our statements assures us that Rick won’t be getting out anytime soon—violating parole with kidnapping and assault guarantees that.
“He’ll be put away for a long time,” the detective says, closing his notepad. “But I’d recommend a restraining order anyway, for when he eventually does get out.”
Ellie nods, but I can see the fear hasn’t left her. The knowledge that someday, Rick will be free again.
The drive home is quiet. Ellie stares out the passenger window, lost in thought, while I navigate one-handed, my other arm throbbing despite the painkillers.
“You could have died today.”
“So could you,” I reply, glancing at her. “So could Miles.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She turns to me, her expression haunted. “Rick was after me. You and Miles were just... collateral damage in his twisted game.”
I pull into my driveway and shut off the engine, turning to face her. “Listen to me. Rick is a predator. Predators isolate their prey—that’s what he wanted. To make you feel alone, responsible. Don’t let him win by believing that.”
Her eyes well with tears. “But he was right about one thing. I do have blood on my hands.”
“No, you don’t,” I say firmly. “You’ve been defending yourself from a stalker. Everything that’s happened is because of his choices, not yours.”
She looks down at her hands, studying them as if she might actually see blood there. “When I reported him for harassment two years ago, I never imagined it would lead to this. The company audit that uncovered his embezzlement, his prison sentence... he lost everything.”
“He lost everything because he was a criminal,” I remind her. “Not because you stood up for yourself.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the events of the day settling around us like dust after an explosion.
“I need to check on Miles tomorrow,” she says eventually.
A twinge of something—jealousy? concern?—passes through me. “Of course.”
She catches my expression. “Not because... It’s not like that. I just need to make sure he’s okay. This happened to him because of me.”
“Because of Rick,” I correct gently. “But I understand. We’ll go together.”
Inside the house, exhaustion hits us both like a physical weight. I fumble with the keys, the pain medication making my movements clumsy. Ellie takes them from my hand, her fingers gentle as they brush mine.
“Let me,” she says, unlocking the door.
The familiar comfort of my home—our home, increasingly—feels different now. Tainted somehow. I glance at the windows, suddenly aware of their vulnerability, wondering if Rick had been watching us through them. How long had he been stalking her before making his move?
“I’ll check the locks,” Ellie says, reading my thoughts. She moves through the house methodically, testing each window, each door, drawing curtains closed against the night.
I sink onto the couch, my arm throbbing. The doctors said to expect pain for several days, to keep the wound clean, to watch for signs of infection. Simple instructions that feel impossibly complex right now.
Ellie returns, her face pale but composed. “Everything’s secure.”
“Come here,” I say, patting the cushion beside me with my good hand.
She hesitates, then joins me, careful not to jostle my injured arm. We sit in silence for a moment, the day’s events replaying in my mind on an endless loop. Rick’s face, the knife, the blood—my blood—spilling onto wooden floorboards.
“I keep thinking about what he said,” Ellie whispers finally. “About being inside my head forever.”
I turn to look at her, this strong, beautiful woman who’s endured so much. “He only has the power you give him.”
“Is that true, though? Because right now, I can’t stop hearing his voice. Seeing his face.” She shudders. “What if he’s right? What if I never escape him, even with him locked away?”
I take her hand, intertwining our fingers. “Then we fight it together. Every day, if we have to. We replace those memories with new ones. Better ones.”
She leans against me, her head on my shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid.”
“I know.” I press a kiss to her hair. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
“Neither are you,” she says softly.
We stay like that, finding comfort in proximity, until my medication pulls me toward sleep. Ellie helps me to bed, her movements gentle as she arranges pillows to support my injured arm.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” she says, turning to leave.
“Why?” I catch her wrist with my good hand.
“You need to rest. I don’t want to hurt your arm accidentally.”
“I need you more than I need to avoid bumping my arm,” I tell her honestly. “Please stay.”
She hesitates, then nods, slipping under the covers beside me.