Chapter 19 Max #2
The question hit me straight on. He knew exactly why.
He’d been the one to break news to me that I never thought I’d have to hear.
When I was in jail, it was Marco who told me about Rosalie, about how she’d died.
Some mess with the Americans—something he couldn’t even fully explain, because no one really knew the full story.
And because I was in and out of that cell, I never had the chance to find out the truth myself.
I could still remember the way he looked at me, like he didn’t even know how to begin.
He just started talking, as straight as he could, telling me she was gone.
No fluff, no easing into it, just a gut punch I wasn’t prepared for.
I remember sitting there, numb, barely hearing anything else he said after that.
Since then, I’d taken opium because it kept her close, in a twisted way. Made it feel like she was still there, like I could pull her back just for a moment. Hell, it was the only way I could sleep most nights. But Marco? He saw right through it, just like he saw through me now.
This was nothing but a reminder of the choices that had led me to this point. Choices made in desperation, in pain and exhaustion. I’d tried to stop. I was a few weeks clean today.
The effort it took to stay away from something you were once addicted to was unimaginable, a daily battle I fought alone. Each day was a test of willpower. The craving would come, and the urges would whisper in my ears insidiously.
“It’s complicated,” I finally said. “You know that better than anyone.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Why are you taking it?”
I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t want to, even though I knew exactly why.
Ever since I’d gotten out, nothing felt right.
The world felt off—empty, cold, like it’d lost every bit of color.
Rosalie was gone, and every day was just another round of going through the motions, trying to make it from morning to night.
The opium . . . well, it helped. It made things bearable.
I’d see her again, hear her voice, feel her presence as if she’d never left.
Sometimes, when I was alone and she’d just show up like she always used to, wearing that easy smile of hers, we’d sit across from each other and play cards.
Go Fish was her favorite, and I’d let her win every damn time.
She’d laugh—that light, teasing sound that made everything feel okay.
She’d shuffle the deck, grinning at me like she knew she had me wrapped around her finger.
Those moments? They felt real—as real as anything.
And they were the only things holding me together.
I’d take another pill just to keep her there a little longer, to not lose her again.
Because without the opium, it all faded—the cards, her voice, her laugh.
The second she’d disappear, the emptiness would creep back in, colder than ever.
So, yeah, I knew why I was taking it. It was the only way I could keep her close.
Looking back, I could see how it had become a vicious cycle. The more I took, the more vivid the hallucinations got. And the more vivid they were, the more I craved the drug.
So when Marco asked me why I’d started taking opium, all I could say was, “I just needed to see her.”
He nodded slowly. “We all have our ghosts,” he said quietly. “Have you tried to go without it?”
“Yep. A few weeks in, and I swear to god, I still see her walking down the street. Just now, actually,” I said, my hand hanging in the air. “It’s like I’m living in my own personal hell, but from someone who wants to torment me.”
Marco’s brow furrowed with concern. “It’s not normal to hallucinate after so long. Are you sure it’s just the withdrawal?”
“I don’t know anymore,” I admitted, the frustration clear in my voice. “Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s something else, but every time I try to quit, she’s there. I’ve tried everything. Therapy, meds, going cold turkey. Nothing works. She’s always there, just out of reach.”
And that was the worst part. I couldn’t get rid of her.
Every time I got close to moving on, she’d show up.
Like some kind of cruel trick my mind was playing on me.
She’d be right there, like she’d just come back to life, and I’d reach out, thinking maybe this time .
. . but then she’d disappear. It felt like I was being taunted.
Like my own brain wouldn’t let me have peace.
“It’s like . . . I’m stuck. No matter what I do, I can’t shake her. She’s in my head all the damn time. I don’t know if it’s because I couldn’t save her or if it’s just me refusing to let go.”
He shrugged in his seat. “Who knows if there’s even a body in the grave? The Clarkes are all full of shit.”
I heard what he was suggesting, but my mind couldn’t catch up. Rosalie wouldn’t do something like that. She wouldn’t fake her own death and leave me here thinking she was gone for good. She wouldn’t do that to me. That’s not who she was. At least . . . that’s what I believed.
But then, would she?
My head spun as I tried to make sense of it.
She wouldn’t put me through this hell—right?
But how well did I really know her when it came down to it?
The woman I loved—or thought I loved—was a Clarke, and those people would do anything if it suited them.
Hell, I’d seen what they were capable of.
They’d burn down the world if it kept them on top.
“You don’t think she’s in the grave?” I pressed, needing to hear him say it outright.
“No. And I’m shocked you never checked,” he replied, his tone almost accusatory. “That’s the first thing I would’ve done. Proves a point too.”
I stared at him. His words sank in like a weight—one that pulled me down so fast I almost felt dizzy.
Was I that blind? So damn na?ve I’d just accepted she was gone, never even thought to question it?
I’d spent so much time trying to drown out the pain, numbing myself with whatever I could, telling myself she was gone forever .
. . and it hadn’t crossed my mind once to dig deeper.
I’d let grief take over—let it cloud my judgment.
But if there was even a chance she wasn’t there . . .
“Proves a point?” I echoed, trying to grasp the full meaning behind his words.
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “If her body isn’t in there, it means you’re not hallucinating. It means she’s still alive, and the Clarkes are playing you. You’re going to hell anyway—might as well go to the grave and find out for yourself.”
His words hit me like a one-two punch: anger, then hope.
A brutal mix of both. It was as if someone had reached in and ripped my heart right out, then handed it back to me, beating and raw.
If she wasn’t in that grave . . . if she was still alive .
. . All this time I’d been in hell, she’d been out there somewhere, alive.
I didn’t know whether to feel relief or fury, so hot it burned right through my chest.
But then came the doubt—that voice in the back of my mind.
What if she was there? What if I went, opened that grave, and found her?
I’d have to face the cold, brutal truth all over again.
Everything I’d done to survive, all the pain and emptiness, the nights I’d spent with nothing but her ghost . . . what if it was all real?
And even worse, what if she wasn’t there? If I’d been drowning in grief, in all those damn memories, all while she was out there somewhere, alive and hidden away. What kind of game had I been played in? And if the Clarkes were involved . . . did she even want to be found?
My hands tightened into fists, the anger boiling up again. All that suffering, all those sleepless nights, the opium, the hallucinations . . . had it all been for nothing? Had she left me to burn in hell just because she could?
I could feel Marco’s eyes on me, watching, waiting for my response.
But I didn’t say a word. I just pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, breaking the silence that had settled between us.
Without another glance his way, I turned and walked out of the room, each step echoing down the hallway as I made my way toward the exit.
Somewhere out there, either buried six feet under or hidden away in some twisted game, was the answer to a question I wasn’t sure I wanted resolved.
But I had to know.
The night air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside. I looked up at the dark sky, the stars scattered like tiny pinpricks in the blackness. Somewhere out there, the truth was waiting. And whatever I found—body or no body—I knew one thing for certain:
Nothing would be the same after this.