39. Clara
CLARA
TWISTED
Every time I think I’ve found a sliver of normal, he finds some way to shatter it. To rip apart the progress I’ve made—the life I’m trying to rebuild.
When I found that letter on the front porch, I knew it was from him before I even opened it.
And then I opened it.
Everything inside me recoiled as I read his words; a reminder that I’m still living in the shadow of what he did to me.
I don’t know how long I sat frozen on the couch, the letter left open next to me and Juno curled in my lap, before Maverick came home and found me like that.
Lost.
Again.
It makes me angry to admit that I let Samson—James, whatever-the-fuck his name is—drag me back to that place. That dark, dangerous corner of my mind where my fear runs rampant.
Where I’m still buried.
But Maverick brought me back, like he always does. My protector, never leaving my side. God, the love I feel for him is overwhelming. He’s my tether; my anchor when the past tries to swallow me whole.
“Hey, best friend. You okay?” Tamara’s voice pulls me back, soft but pointed as she bumps her shoulder into mine. Her brows draw together, etched with concern.
The kitchen smells like garlic and rosemary, warm and inviting. Tamara and I have made a quiet routine out of cooking dinner together when she visits while Maverick’s working.
“I’m okay,” I say, blinking and shifting my gaze to the window. Juno’s outside, living the high life, sunbathing in the grass. Shaking my head at his antics, I return to the simmering sauce on the stove. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
I glance at my phone on the counter for what must be the hundredth time. The screen is still dark.
“He hasn’t called yet,” I admit.
Maverick texted me after the meeting with the mayor. DNA match. We’ve got him. Might be home later than I thought. Love you.
That was hours ago.
“He’ll call,” Tamara says gently. “That man is gone for you.”
I let out a quiet laugh and shake my head. “You should probably watch your fingers,” I tease.
Tamara’s chopping romaine lettuce, cucumbers, and grape tomatoes for the salad. She makes me nervous whenever she handles a chef’s knife. To be fair, she’s improved. But we’ve had too many bloody incidents in the kitchen to last me a lifetime.
“Rude,” she chides, rolling her eyes before focusing on the knife in her hand.
It takes everything in me not to pick up my phone.
There’s a tightness in my chest, a visceral unease that lingers.
I try not to read into it. I tell myself he’s just busy.
This is how it goes when they’re close to something big.
And with the DNA coming back as a match, he’s likely on his way to get a warrant.
That was the plan, anyway. But it doesn’t stop me from worrying.
The doorbell rings.
“That would be the groceries,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel as I head toward the front door.
We needed a few missing items, including dessert, and neither of us felt like leaving the house.
An Italian dinner without tiramisu felt blasphemous.
And I’m pretty sure Tamara would throw the salad bowl at me if I tried to serve her my preferred salad dressing—squeezed lemon juice and salt—instead of Olive Garden’s.
I open the door, a light smile already forming. “Thank y?—”
But the half-formed smile falls, and the words die in my throat.
It’s not the delivery driver.
A man stands on the porch, bathed in the warmth of the setting sun. His features are too familiar. His expression too calm.
My blood runs cold.
“Hello, Clara.”