Chapter 22
Jenna
The apartment is less than six hundred square feet, but it feels so much smaller, like the walls shrink a little more every time I make another freaking bad decision. I don’t even know what my plan is anymore.
I fucked the man whose house I broke into, whose daughter I’m fake tutoring, and who probably knows where my brother is.
And I don’t think I’ve gotten any closer to Cade.
All I’ve done is let myself be dicked down by an asshole. How nice.
I eye my jeans on the floor, and roll onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow. I feel like a fucking idiot. Calvin Bradford fucked me, I liked it, and then he ran me off. And now there’s a wedge between us.
Unless I come up with a way to fix it.
I roll back onto my back and run my hand down to the inside of my thigh beneath the covers. I wince at the tenderness there. I imagine bruises already forming, fingerprint marks painting my skin in blue and sickly yellow, the shape of Calvin’s.
And that makes my body ache with some sick sort of satisfaction.
I stare up at the cracks in the ceiling above me for a few moments, tempted to replay the night in a way that ends differently. But as my fingers brush over my damp underwear, my phone rings.
I almost don't answer, but when it keeps ringing, the panic spiral kicks in. What if it's about Cade? What if it is Cade? I reach for the phone, sliding to answer without evening looking.
“Hello?” My voice is gravel as I answer, ripping the charger out of the wall on accident. I let out a frustrated sigh, and then drop back down on the hard bed.
There's a silence on the other end, then the tight, pinched timbre of my mother, calling from a thousand miles of emotional distance. “Jenna. You sound terrible. Did I wake you?”
“No,” I mutter, instantly regretting my decision to answer. “I just haven't had coffee yet.”
She sighs. “It's noon. Are you on an odd teaching schedule or something? You’ve never been one to sleep in like this.”
“I'm not working today, and I was out late.” I go back to staring at the ceiling, counting the water stains. “Did you call for a reason, or—?”
“Jenna.” There's a click of her tongue, the sound she makes before she delivers bad news or a pointed observation. “I've been trying to reach you for two days. I left messages. You know how I worry about you. You can’t just drop off on me, like this.”
I wince. “You don't have to worry,” I say, but it comes out as a hiss. I dig my fingers into my thigh, wishing it hurt worse than it does.
“Don't be like that. I have every right to worry. Your brother has a way of always dragging you into his messes. Don’t you remember the last—”
“Don't,” I snap, cutting her off. “Don't start the whole 'after the last' thing. I'm fine. I'm just tired. I just… I’m a little overwhelmed.”
She pauses. “Is it your brother? Did you find him? Is it…bad?”
The question slides into me sideways, right under the ribs. “I haven’t found him, so no. It’s not him…”
“Okay, well…” Something in her tone shifts—and not in a good way. “I read about a fire on the news… Up there where you are…”
Every ounce of warmth drains from my body, and I sit up. “What?”
“I’ll send you the link,” her voice is deathly soft now. “I think it might be him.”
I pull the phone from my ear, put her on speaker, and wait for the link to come through. As soon as it opens, my heart fucking sinks.
Double homicide in Ridgecrest. Arson.
I close my eyes, see the flames dancing in the backs of my eyelids, the memory of a different burning house, Cade's voice screaming through the static of my memory. My mouth fills with the taste of ash.
“Jen?”
“I see it,” I sound distant to myself. “But I don’t know if it’s him. Why would he… Why would he do something so fucking stupid when he’s wanted for murder?” Anger and exasperation leak from my tone, and I want to throw my fucking phone across the room.
My mom is silent for a few moments, and then says something she never has before. “We can't save him, Jenna. We just…can’t.”
I blink back the tears, my heart squeezing. “But he saved us. He deserves for me to keep trying, and not give up on him.”
“But if he wanted us to find him, then he wouldn’t make it so hard.” My mom is crying, I know she is. I can hear it in the way her voice quivers. I hate this.
I bite my lip until I taste blood. “I think I might be close though.” Telling her that I think I might’ve seen him is on the tip of my tongue, but even now, I’m completely sure it was him.
And it doesn’t matter anyway.
“Just come home,” she pleads, ignoring the drop of information I gave her. “It’s killing me to watch you give up your life for someone who just keeps leaving anyway. He’s never going to come home. He can’t. I realize that now. I don’t know why I pushed you. I should’ve never pushed you.”
Something stings in those words.
“Okay,” I snap, louder than I mean to. “Well, I don't need a lecture about it. I don't need your parental guilt trip. If you just called to say he isn’t worth it and to take it all back, save your breath. I need to know he’s okay. Just like he always did for me.”
There's a brittle silence, broken only by the distant hum of her TV or maybe a radio. “Jenna, I just want you to be safe. You're all I have left. But you keep—”
“Chasing him,” I finish. “Yeah. Okay.”
The quiet stretches once more. I can almost see her there, in the fancy fucking house Lance bought her, sitting at the kitchen table with the same mug she's had since before I was born, wearing her disappointment like a cardigan.
I imagine telling her everything—about the job, about Calvin Bradford, about the fact that I'm so far off the rails I can barely see daylight—but I can't. That’s way too much for her.
“I love you, Mom. I’ll come home. I will. I just… I just have to find him.”
She answers me with a sigh, and I hang up before she can say anything else.
For a minute, I just sit there, listening to the pipes rattle in the walls, letting the shame and rage churn in my chest.
When I finally get up, my limbs move on autopilot. I pull on sweatpants, then the least dirty shirt I can find. I try to do something with my hair, but it just falls limp around my face. I look like someone who’s just survived an animal attack, and in a way, I have.
Calvin Bradford is some type of animal.
I open the fridge and grab the last bottle of water. I force it down, trying to flush the memory of last night out of my system. I pace the room, running scenarios in my head. How to find Cade, how to fix the damage, how to make sense of what happened with Bradford.
Every solution runs into a wall of exhaustion.
I finally end at my desk. I clear a space with my forearm and lay out a spiral notebook. I start writing everything I know. I cross-reference Cade’s last known location with the fire article, and my stomach clenches at how realistic it would be for it to be him.
Do the authorities know that? Is Cade going to run? Am I too late?
I stare at the burnt remains of the house, just as a notification flickers across the screen.
Molly: Can we meet Tues? I really want to get this essay done.
The rational part of me knows this is good. The more time I spend with her, the more chances I have to get close to Bradford, which would allow for me to maybe catch a glimpse or ask a question…
But I can’t read the message without my stomach flipping over on itself.
Still, I type a reply, fingers stiff.
Me: Sure. Same time and place?
Molly: Yes! Thank you. You’re the best.
I set the phone down and flip open my computer. I do my best to focus. I try to rebuild the timeline in my head as I open up a notes page. But the images of last night keep flickering in, strobing over everything.
I can’t get past the heat of Bradford’s hands, the way his body caged mine, the pain and pleasure tangled together in a knot I can’t freaking unravel. I press my fingers to my neck, where he squeezed, and grit my teeth.
Fuck him. You can’t get attached. He means nothing. This is about Cade.
I’m stronger than this. I have to be.
I make my way to the browser, and search for details on the homicide and fire in Ridgecrest. A local news channel video is right at the top, and I click it open.
“An investigation into last night’s structure fire continues. The site is still off-limits, but sources say the blaze was likely arson…”
The screen shows B-roll of the fire—flames chewing through a wooden roof, black smoke roiling into the night, police tape flapping in the wind. For a second, my vision tunnels, the edges of the room fuzzing out. The reporter’s voice is a mosquito whine, every word a needle.
And I can’t stop my fucking memories.
The flashbacks come in quick, unclear pulses, and my stomach rolls. The smell of burning, the heat on my face, and Cade murmuring that I’m safe now, that no one is ever going to hurt us again.
But they still tried.
I can’t breathe. My chest locks up, and I shove myself back from the desk, staggering to the bathroom and shoulder-checking the door.
I drop to my knees on the tile and retch, but nothing comes up.
My body shakes, cold sweat pouring down my neck and back.
I grip the rim of the sink, knuckles white, and force myself to inhale.
It takes forever. But finally, the panic backs off. I rinse my mouth, then splash my face with water, over and over until I feel human. I wipe myself dry using my sleeve, spit in the sink, and go back to the desk. The video is still going, now interviewing a neighbor about the fire.
“They say it was deliberate,” the neighbor says. “Somebody wanted to cover their tracks. I even heard rumors the body was mutilated.”
I shut my eyes. For a second, I let myself imagine that I’m not hearing the words that confirm it’s Cade. That I’m just a lone teacher with a student, trying to win a writing contest, and this is just the news.
But the world doesn’t let me live in fantasy for long. It never has.