34. Chapter 34
Cate
Present
Never in my life have I sobered up so quickly.
The alcohol drained out of me like someone had pulled a plug. I ran from the kitchen, half-tripping over my own feet, grabbing my purse and shoes and shoving them on as I went. My shoulder clipped the wall hard enough to leave a dent.
“Shit.”
I bolted out the front door, and stopped short.
Trevor had my car.
“Shit,” I said again, this time quieter, like the word might bruise if I said it too loud.
I sat hard on the front step and dug through my purse, fingers shaking, knocking everything loose until my phone finally landed in my palm. I fumbled it, dropped it, cursed when it powered off, then turned it on and stared at the screen like willing it to hurry might make it obey.
As soon as it lit up, I dialed.
The phone rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” Seth’s voice came through, rough and tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, or even years.
“Seth?” I said too loudly, my voice already breaking. “It’s me.”
“Cate?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m home. Trevor has my car.”
There was a pause, brief but weighted. “You still at the townhouse?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come get you.”
I hesitated. Trevor wouldn’t like this. He never liked Seth. But Trevor wasn’t here, and John…
“Okay,” I said.
I waited on the step, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around myself. The night had turned colder than I expected, my bare arms prickling, but I didn’t go back inside. I didn’t want to miss him.
Headlights appeared at the end of the street, drifting closer like cautious eyes. I stood as a dark Ford pickup rolled to the curb.
“Get in,” Seth said, pushing the passenger door open.
I barely recognized him without the Mustang. Ten years ago, that car had been everything - red paint, loud engine, reckless confidence.
I climbed in. The warmth hit me all at once.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, because silence felt like it might swallow me whole, I asked, “What happened to the Mustang?”
“Sold it.”
That was all he said.
The city slid past in streaks - streetlights and dark storefronts, wet pavement reflecting the world back like a warped mirror. Every red light felt like cruelty. Every green felt like permission to fall apart faster.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, faintly, like my body was trying to warn me.
The police station rose up out of the dark like a block of concrete meant to hold people’s worst nights.
Seth parked hard. The truck rocked. He cut the engine, and the sudden quiet made my ears ring.
Before he could open his door, I blurted, “Is he dead?”
Seth froze, one hand on the handle. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.
“You don’t know,” I repeated, too sharp, too loud in the small space.
His grip shifted. “They won’t tell me anything. They called me, and they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
I stared at him, at the shape of his profile in the dash lights.
He looked older than I remembered, like the last decade had carved him down instead of building him up.
A shadow of stubble. Lines at his mouth that weren’t there before.
His hair wasn’t the same, either - shorter, not the carefree mess John used to tease him about.
“How did you even…” My breath hitched. “Why did they call you?”
Seth’s throat worked. “Because there was a number. Because I’m… I’m on something. Somewhere.” He swallowed. “Because when someone doesn’t have family, the police start calling whoever’s left.”
Whoever’s left.
The words made my stomach turn. John’s parents had died a few years back…
“Whatever happens in there,” he said, voice rough, “don’t…” He stopped. Restarted.
“Just… stay close.”
To him.
The irony almost made me laugh.
I opened the door before I could.
The lobby smelled like disinfectant and exhaustion.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright for the late hour. A TV mounted in the corner played muted news to an empty row of plastic chairs. Somewhere down a hallway, a phone rang and rang until it stopped.
We walked up to the front desk - bulletproof glass, a narrow slot at the bottom, and a woman behind it flipping through paperwork like nothing in the world had ever mattered less.
Seth cleared his throat. “We got a call. About John Rosewood.”
The woman didn’t look up right away. She kept writing. Kept turning pages. Kept letting time stretch.
Seth’s foot started tapping.
My stomach rolled. I could feel the whiskey and the wine climbing back up my throat like they wanted a second chance.
Finally, she lifted her eyes. They landed on Seth. Then me. Flat and practiced.
“Name?”
“Seth Peterson,” Seth said, then glanced at me.
“Cate,” I managed. “Catherine Larkin.”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Relationship?”
The word relationship felt obscene.
I opened my mouth, and what came out wasn’t exactly the truth, it was reflex. The name I still carried in the hollows of my life.
“I’m his fiancée.”
I heard Seth inhale. Heard the faint shift of his shoulders, like he’d felt the same sting I did, because was I? Could you still be someone’s fiancée after ten years of silence?
The woman’s gaze sharpened, like the word unlocked something in her head. She reached for a phone without another question.
I stood there, frozen, while she spoke in a low voice I couldn’t make out. When she hung up, she said, “Detective Marshall will be out shortly.”
Detective.
So we were here for questions. That made sense. That was what police did, right? Asked what I knew. Where he’d been. What he’d said the last time I saw him. Whether we fought. If he’d had enemies.
I could answer questions.
I could survive questions.
Seth turned and paced a few steps away, came back, then paced again. His anger was a live wire. Mine was quieter, buried under something worse.
Hope.
Because if they were bringing a detective out… if they were asking me…
Then maybe John was alive.
Maybe they’d found him. Maybe he was in a hospital bed somewhere, confused, injured, ashamed. Maybe he’d lost his memory. Maybe he’d been held. Maybe…
Maybe he’d come home.
I squeezed my eyes shut so hard it hurt.
Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t build a miracle out of nothing.
Seth stopped pacing long enough to mutter, “This is bullshit,” he ran a hand through his hair. His knee bounced when he sat down, faster and faster, like it was trying to outrun the moment. “They can’t just…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
The woman behind the glass didn’t blink.
A door opened down the hall, and footsteps approached, the sound echoing.
A man appeared, folder in hand.
He was young. Too young. His blonde hair was neatly combed and he wore a suit that didn’t quite fit, like he was trying to look more official than he felt. His face was calm in the way people got when they had to say bad things for a living.
My skin prickled.
“Ms. Larkin?” he asked.
“Yes. That's me.”
“I’m Detective Marshall,” he said. “If you’ll come with me.”
Seth stepped forward with me immediately.
The detective held up a hand. “I’m going to need you to wait here, sir.”
Seth blinked. “What? No. I’m with her.”
“Next of kin only.”
The words hit like a slap.
Seth’s face flushed deep red, anger and helplessness tangling in his expression. “He doesn’t have next of kin. His parents…”
The detective’s gaze flicked to the folder. “That’s… why we called, but procedure…”
“Procedure,” Seth echoed, voice rising. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I grabbed Seth’s arm. He felt rigid beneath my fingers, like he was barely containing himself.
“Seth,” I said quietly. “Wait here. Please. If this is… if this is him… I need to know.”
Seth stared at me like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find the words. His throat worked.
“Tell him I’m here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. Not to the detective. To me.
I swallowed. “I will.”
The door closed behind me with a heavy, definitive thud that made my stomach drop.
The hallway was colder than the lobby.
Not just the temperature, but the tone. The air felt stripped of softness, like warmth wasn’t allowed past that first door. The overhead lights were brighter, harsher. The floors gleamed in a way that made every footstep sound loud and exposed.
The detective walked a half-step ahead of me. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t slow down for my panic either. Like he’d walked this path with a hundred strangers and learned not to match their pace.
I forced myself to keep moving.
Questions. You can handle questions.
We passed a room with chain-link walls, some kind of holding area, and my skin crawled. Another door, another code pad. A security camera watching us like we were already suspects.
The detective stopped in front of a stainless-steel door with a small square window.
Something inside me recoiled, sharp and instinctive, like an animal sensing danger.
My brain recognized it before my body did.
Every show. Every movie. Every nightmare.
My knees buckled.
“No,” I whispered, and the word didn’t sound like it came from me. It sounded like it came from something deep and childlike and terrified.
The detective turned slightly. “Ms. Larkin…”
“I thought…” My voice broke. I swallowed hard. “You said… you said you needed to talk to me.”
His expression shifted. Not with sympathy or kindness. Just something practiced.
“We do,” he said, carefully. “But first we need you to confirm an identity.”
Confirm an identity.
My stomach lurched so violently I barely had time to bend before everything came up. I hit the floor on my knees and retched, emptying the last of dinner and alcohol into nothing but air and panic until my body convulsed with the effort.
The world narrowed to the sound of it - wet, humiliating, unstoppable.
The detective was gone for a moment and back again with a trash can, placing it in front of me like this was routine, like grief always did this.
I clutched the rim and kept going until my throat burned and my eyes streamed and the bile left me shaking.
When I finally lifted my head, the floor was swimming.
The detective offered me water and I waved it away.
My hands were trembling so badly I had to press them against my thighs to make them stop.