Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Downward dog might actually kill me.
I stare at the yoga instructor on my laptop screen—some impossibly flexible woman in matching lavender athleisure—and try to contort my body into the same position. My hamstrings scream in protest.
"Breathe into the stretch," she chirps.
I can barely breathe at all. My hands slip on the mat, and I collapse onto my stomach with a grunt.
This was supposed to help, to quiet the constant buzz in my brain, the fear that's been living in my chest since I hit send on that email three hours ago.
I push myself back up, attempt something called Warrior Two. My thighs burn. At least the pain distracts from the nausea.
My phone pings.
The sound cuts through me like glass.
I freeze, one arm extended, the other bent behind me in what's probably not even close to correct form. My eyes dart to the phone sitting on the coffee table.
Gmail notification.
No.
My legs give out. I sink onto the mat, crawling toward the phone like it might explode if I move too fast.
Daniel
The name glows on my screen.
My hands shake as I unlock it and scroll to the email. The preview shows only the first line:
Did you really think—
I tap it open.
Did you really think I'm that stupid, Liza?
That you could actually manipulate me with your pathetic, transparent little apology?
That I wouldn't see right through every single word?
I can read you like a fucking book—always could.
Every lie that drips from those pretty lips, every calculated word you chose so carefully, every fake sentiment you typed out.
You don't mean any of it. Not one goddamn word.
It's too late for forgiveness. You had your chance—so many chances—and you threw them all away.
You made your choice when you decided I wasn't good enough for you, when you ran straight into his arms like the desperate little thing you are.
You made your bed—now you get to lie in it.
With him. For now. Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart.
Enjoy feeling safe in his house, in his bed, pretending like you've escaped something.
Because we both know how temporary that feeling is.
We both know you're not the type who gets to keep good things.
But understand this—and I mean really let this sink deep into that pretty little head of yours: I will never, ever forget what you did to me.
What you stole from me. What you destroyed—the future we could have had, the life I was building for us, the plans I made—all of it, shattered because of your selfishness, your immaturity, your complete inability to appreciate what was right in front of you.
You took everything from me, Liza. My trust, my patience, my generosity.
All those things I gave you so freely, and you just threw them back in my face like they meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
And Julian? Oh, sweetheart, he's going to learn too.
He's going to understand exactly what kind of chaos you bring into people's lives.
What kind of destruction follows you wherever you go.
He thinks he's saving you, doesn't he? Playing the hero, the knight in shining armor.
But he has no idea what he's gotten himself into.
Neither will anyone else who's stupid enough to try to help you, to shelter you, to stand between us.
They'll all learn. Every single one of them.
You're not clever. You're not in control. You never were.
—D
The phone slips from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
My whole body goes cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
Stupid. I'm so fucking stupid. I've antagonized him further. I've poked the bear. Hard.
I didn't calm him down—I only made it worse.
The restraining order feels useless against whatever he's planning.
I should bring this to the police. Show them the threat.
But what good would it do? They couldn't arrest him for vandalizing the pool hall. What makes me think they'll take this seriously? What else can they do?
I wrap my arms around my knees, rocking slightly.
Julian. He threatened Julian.
A sob catches in my throat.
I pace the living room, bare feet slapping against Julian's hardwood. My chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped it in plastic wrap, squeezing tighter with every breath.
I can't eat. Haven't touched the leftovers Julian left in the fridge before heading to a gig. The thought of food makes my stomach clench.
Sleep? Forget it. I tried last night. I lie there staring at the ceiling for three hours before giving up and doomscrolling until dawn.
My laptop sits on the coffee table. I drop onto the couch, flip it open.
Gun ownership requirements in Maine
The search results begin to populate across my screen, one link after another appearing in rapid succession.
Background checks—federal and state-level, apparently.
Safety courses with locations and schedules, some in Portland.
Waiting periods that seem to stretch on forever, days and days of bureaucratic red tape before you can even hold the damn thing.
I picture myself holding a gun in my trembling hands, the cold metal heavy and foreign against my palms. My hands would shake—they always shake when I'm scared, when my heart races like this, when adrenaline floods my system.
I can see it so clearly: Daniel lunging forward, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with that iron grip he's so good at, the one that leaves bruises shaped like fingerprints. The struggle. The gun twisting between us, the barrel spinning wildly in the chaos, pointing everywhere and nowhere.
And then, God, then it would be aimed at Julian—beautiful, kind Julian who's only trying to help me, who doesn't deserve any of this nightmare I've dragged into his life.
"No." I slam the laptop shut. "Absolutely not."
I already have mace—used it on Daniel in the parking lot. And the personal alarm Jenna bought me, the one that screams like a banshee when you pull the cord.
Guns aren't for me. With my luck, I'd be the one bleeding out on the floor.
My phone sits on the cushion next to me. I grab it, scroll through my contacts, hit Raine's name.
He picks up on the fourth ring. "Yo."
"Hey. Just checking in about the phone. Any progress?"
Silence stretches for three seconds too long. "Uh, yeah, about that—"
My jaw tightens.
"Been crazy busy. My other aunt, the one in Vermont? She's been having some health issues, and I had to drive up there over the weekend, help her move some furniture—"
"Right…”
"But I'm definitely getting to it. Promise. Just need a couple more days to—"
"Totally fine." My voice comes out flat. Dead. "Take your time."
"Appreciate it. I'll hit you up when I—"
I end the call.
I stare at his name on the screen. I'm so disappointed in him—more than I thought I'd be. More than I should be, maybe. But the weight of it settles heavily in my chest, mixing with everything else. The frustration. The fear. The exhaustion of constantly bracing for the next disaster.
I'm disappointed with the whole world, actually. With how nothing ever seems to work the way it's supposed to. With how people make promises they don't keep, how they let you down when you need them most.
Why is my life such an absolute disaster? What the hell did I ever do to deserve any of this godforsaken nightmare? Every single time I think things might be looking up, might be getting even slightly better, something else crashes down on top of me like a ton of bricks.
I hurl the phone at the wall.
It hits with a satisfying crack, bounces off, and lands on the rug.
The sob comes out of nowhere. Rips through my chest like something tearing free. I pull my knees up, bury my face against them, and let it all pour out.
Everything. Daniel. The email. The threats. Julian in danger because of me.
Claudia, still missing.
Raine, giving me excuses while a girl's life hangs in the balance.
My body shakes. I can't stop. Can't breathe through it.
Can't do anything but cry.
I drag myself off the couch an hour later, eyes swollen, throat raw. Work. I have to go to work.
The shift drags. Every minute feels like ten. I keep checking my phone, waiting for... I don't even know what. A miracle, maybe.
When I finally push through Julian's front door at eleven, the apartment is dark.
"Julian?"
Nothing.
I flip on the lights. His keys aren't on the hook by the door. No jacket draped over the chair. No shoes kicked off in the hall.
Weird. He should be home by now—his gig at the piano bar ended at ten.
I check my phone. No texts.
He probably stopped somewhere. Grabbed a drink with a coworker or something.
I'm peeling off my jacket when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
My stomach tightens, but I answer anyway. "Hello?"
"Is this Liza Singh?”
"Yeah, who's—"
"This is Maine Medical Center. You're listed as the emergency contact for Julian Ramirez.”
The floor tilts beneath me.
"We need you to come in. Mr. Ramirez has been admitted following an assault. He's sustained injuries and—"
The room spins around me, walls closing in as bile rises sharp and acrid in my throat.
My legs feel like they might give out right here on Julian’s entrance floor.
Every worst-case scenario I've ever imagined—every dark possibility I've pushed away in the dead of night—is crashing down on me all at once, suffocating me.
This isn't just a nightmare. This is the nightmare, the one that's been lurking in the shadows since the moment Daniel's mask slipped, the one I've been too terrified to name out loud.
"What kind of injuries? Is he okay? Is he—"
"I can't give you more information over the phone. Please come to the emergency department as soon as possible."
The line goes dead.
I'm already running.
The drive is a blur of tears and red lights and my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. Every breath feels like glass scraping my lungs.
Daniel did this. I know he did. He went after Julian—beautiful, gentle Julian, who never hurt anyone, who only tried to protect me.
This is my fault. All of it.
Images flash through my mind, each one worse than the last. Julian bleeding. Unconscious. His face smashed, unrecognizable. His skull cracked open like—
"Stop it. Stop."
But I can't. The thoughts spiral faster, darker, pulling me under.
I screech into the hospital parking lot, abandon my car in a spot that might not even be a spot, and sprint through the automatic doors.
"Julian Ramirez.” My voice cracks. "Where is he? I got a call—"
The receptionist types something, maddeningly slow. "He's being treated. You'll need to wait—"
"I need to see him. Right now."
"Ma'am, I understand, but—"
"You don't understand anything!" My voice echoes off the sterile walls. "Where is he?"
She blinks at me, her expression shifting from professional to alarmed. "I'll page the doctor. Please have a seat."
"I don't want to sit. I want to see—"
The room spins.
My knees buckle.
I hit the floor hard, the cold tile slamming against my palms, and everything goes white.