Chapter 9
nine
Zach
By the time the second day settles in, time stops behaving like something linear and starts folding in on itself, each hour pressing into the next without anything shifting except the weight of it.
Someone said it’s been close to forty-eight hours since she was taken, but the number doesn’t land properly, because it doesn’t feel like forty-eight hours.
It feels longer than that, like something has stretched the distance between when she was here and now until it no longer fits into anything measurable, like the version of the world where she exists has been pulled just out of reach and everything else is continuing around that absence without acknowledging it.
There are still no leads.
That’s the part that sits under everything, constant and unrelenting, threading through every conversation, every plan, every movement in the apartment that goes nowhere.
Christian is still working, still moving pieces into place that no one else can see, still taking calls that sound important without producing anything solid, while Lucian moves with that same controlled presence beside him, adjusting things, guiding things, keeping it contained in a way that suggests there should be progress even when there isn’t.
They had come back not long ago, and Elijah was covered in more blood.
It had dried into his hands, into the fabric of his shirt, into the edge of his jaw like he hadn’t even thought about it, like it hadn’t occurred to him that it should be removed before he walked back into the space where everything else is still trying to function.
He hadn’t spoken when he came in. He had just moved through the apartment like it had already shifted to accommodate whatever he has become in the last day, like the version of him that existed before this no longer fits here.
Jackson hasn’t moved from the table.
The video is still open in front of him, paused and replayed, slowed, zoomed, broken apart and reconstructed in ways that shouldn’t be possible from such a short clip, but he keeps doing it anyway, like if he watches it enough times something will slip, something will reveal itself, something will give him a direction that isn’t empty.
He doesn’t react to it anymore. Not visibly.
He just keeps going, locked into it in a way that feels like the only thing holding him upright.
The hand.
The way she was lying there.
The stillness.
It’s there whether I look or not.
My hip aches.
It’s been building for hours, sitting under everything else at first, quiet enough to ignore, then louder, then impossible to push aside once everything else starts to wear thin.
Normally I can work through it, push past it, let it sit in the background while everything else takes priority, but today it feels like it’s feeding into everything else, threading through the tension, making it harder to stand still, harder to think, harder to stay present in a space where I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.
That’s the worst part.
Everyone else is moving.
Elijah is out there doing something, even if it’s brutal, even if it’s uncontrolled, even if it’s not leading anywhere yet.
Christian is organizing.
Lucian is directing.
Jackson is dissecting that video like it’s the only thing that matters.
And I’m here.
Standing in the middle of it with nothing to do, no direction to take, no way to help that doesn’t feel like I’m getting in the way.
“Zach.”
Jackson’s voice cuts through it, pulling me back just enough to register that he’s looking at me, his eyes sharper than they should be, like he hasn’t blinked properly in hours.
“They called again,” he says. “Coach. They want to know why we’re not at practice.”
The words sit there for a second without meaning anything. Practice feels like it belongs to a different life, something that exists in a version of reality that isn’t connected to this one.
I nod anyway, because it’s something to respond to, something that requires an answer even if it doesn’t matter.
“Tell them we’re not coming,” I say, my voice steady enough that it doesn’t betray how little I actually have behind it.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary, like he’s checking something, then looks back down at the screen without answering, the video starting again.
I don’t look at it.
I don’t need to.
I push away from the wall and move down the hallway without saying anything, the sound of the apartment dulling slightly the further I get from it, the noise of voices and movement fading into something quieter, something easier to ignore.
Her room is exactly the same.
Nothing has been touched.
Nothing has been moved.
The bed is still unmade, her things still where she left them, her scent still in the air in a way that settles around me the second I step inside, familiar enough that it makes something in my chest tighten before I can stop it.
I close the door behind me.
The quiet lands heavier here.
Not empty.
Just wrong.
I stand there for a moment, letting it hit properly, letting myself breathe it in even though I know it’s going to make it worse.
My hip pulses again, sharper this time, pulling me out of it just enough to move.
The drawer slides open easily. The bottle is where I left it from the first night I had moved in.
I pick it up, turning it in my hand, the weight of it familiar enough that I don’t have to think about what I’m doing, even as I recognize it for exactly what it is.
I know what this is.
I know what I’m doing.
The ache pulses again.
Louder.
Layered over everything else.
I shake a few into my hand, more than I should, not counting them properly, not caring enough to.
I swallow them dry.
The bitterness lingers for a second before it fades.
I sit on the edge of her bed and wait.
It doesn’t take long.
It never does.
The edge starts to soften first, the sharpness in my body dulling just enough that I can feel it shift as it happens, like something loosening that I hadn’t realized was that tight.
The ache in my hip fades into something quieter, something I can ignore again, and the rest follows, slower this time, the noise in my head pulling back just enough that I can sit with it without it crushing everything else.
I lean back onto the bed, turning into her pillow without thinking, pressing my face into it. The scent of her stronger here, caught in the fabric in a way that makes my chest tighten again.
My phone is in my hand before I realise I’ve picked it up.
The message thread is already open. I type without thinking.
Need more.
The reply comes back quickly.
Time. Location. Tonight.
I stare at it for a second, letting it settle, then lock my phone and drop it beside me.
It doesn’t feel like a decision.
It just feels like something that’s already happening.
I shift onto my side, pulling the pillow closer, breathing her in again, letting it sit there even though it doesn’t do anything except make everything sharper underneath the haze starting to settle over me.
My thoughts drift.
Not clean.
Not structured.
Just pieces of her slipping through.
The way she feels against me.
Warm.
Real.
The way she tastes when she comes, when she forgets everything else, when it’s just us and nothing outside of that moment matters.
My chest tightens.
I don’t care about anything else. The thought settles quietly.
I don’t care about the season.
I don’t care about the game.
I don’t care about anything I thought mattered before this.
I don’t care if I never get to marry her.
The thought lands differently now, not sharp, not painful, just distant in a way it wasn’t before, like something I was holding onto that doesn’t matter anymore.
I just want her back.
That’s it.
That’s all that matters.
My hand tightens in the sheets, pulling them closer, my face pressing deeper into her pillow as something shifts in my chest, heavier this time, harder to ignore even with everything else softening around it.
Because I can’t do anything.
I don’t know how to help.
I don’t know where she is.
I don’t know what’s happening to her.
The thought lands too hard.
I roll further into the bed, curling slightly into the space, my face buried in her pillow as if I can block it out, as if I can hold onto something that still feels like her.
It doesn’t work.
It just makes it worse.
My throat tightens so fast it almost feels like something is lodged there, something I can’t swallow down or push past, and the first breath that comes out of me isn’t steady, isn’t controlled, it breaks halfway through like my body has forgotten how to do something as simple as breathe properly.
The second one is worse.
It catches, turns into something uneven and shaking, and before I can pull it back under control it’s already slipping, already breaking into something I can’t stop as my chest tightens hard enough that it hurts.
“Lia…”
Her name comes out rough, barely there, dragged out of me like it costs something to say it, like it’s the only thing I have left to hold onto and it still isn’t enough.
I press my face harder into her pillow, my hand twisting in the sheets as the next breath tears out of me, sharper this time, my body folding slightly into the mattress like I can contain it there, like I can keep it inside this space instead of letting it exist anywhere else.
It doesn’t stay contained.
It breaks open.
“Please…”
The word is muffled into the fabric, fractured, barely formed, and it makes something in my chest pull tighter, harder, because I don’t even know who I’m saying it to, I just know I need it to land somewhere.
“Just...come back…”
My voice gives out halfway through it, turning into something hoarse and uneven as my breathing falls apart completely, each inhale catching, each exhale shaking, nothing steady, nothing controlled anymore.
“I don’t care… I don’t care about anything else…”
The words spill without thought, broken apart between breaths that won’t settle, my grip tightening in the sheets as everything I’ve been holding in since she was taken finally cracks open all the way through.
“Just give her back!”
It comes out quieter, but worse, dragged low and raw, like something stripped down to nothing but need, like there’s no control left in it at all.
I don’t know if I’m talking to her.
To God.
To anyone who might be listening.
I just know I can’t stop.
The sound of it doesn’t stay quiet anymore, doesn’t stay contained in the pillow, it breaks out in uneven, shaking breaths that turn into something closer to sobbing, my chest tightening and releasing in sharp, uncontrollable pulls as my face stays buried in her pillow, breathing her in like it might be enough to keep me from completely coming apart.
My hand twists harder in the fabric, the sheets pulling tight under my grip as everything spills out of me in a way I can’t control, can’t stop, can’t push back down.
I don’t know how long it lasts.
Time doesn’t sit properly anymore.
It stretches.
Blurs.
The pills settle deeper, pulling everything down with them, softening the edges even as everything underneath stays exactly where it is.
My breathing eventually slows.
Not steady.
Not controlled.
Just less.
I stay where I am, face pressed into her pillow, the scent of her still there, the only thing in this room that hasn’t changed.
My body grows heavier.
The pull stronger.
My thoughts slipping further out of reach the longer I lie there, the weight of it dragging me under in a way I don’t fight.
The last thing I’m aware of is the way my grip loosens slightly in the sheets, my face still buried in her pillow as everything fades.
And the quiet, broken sound of my breathing before it disappears.
Then nothing.