Chapter 22 Ella
Ella
“Come on, dog,” I say, hands on my hips, head tilted. “You can’t just lie in bed forever.”
“Maybe he’s depressed.” Matilda sits cross-legged in front of Motor’s bed, stroking his head. The dog is curled up, brown eyes looking the same way they have the last six months—sad. “Come on, Motordog. Come for a walk with us.”
He remains still.
I’d hoped that Motor might perk up after a few months of living with me and my dad, but no such luck. There are moments he’s his old self, but rarely.
That night has changed the both of us.
In the six months since Asher died, my life has been turned upside down—and not just from the heartbreak of losing him, but the way the world reacted to the news.
I’ve never been particularly famous for my books, but my small fame paired with being the chief of police’s daughter caught up in a murder-for-hire scandal hit the headlines hard.
I was bombarded by the press and moved back to the suburbs with my dad just to get some peace and quiet.
And because I can’t face going back to the apartment.
Two years I’d lived there alone, three weeks I’d spent with Asher, but his presence is everywhere. I tried to go back a few weeks after everything happened, and I’d assumed I’d be okay. But the orchids Asher bought me had died, and for some reason, it hit me then that he’s really gone.
Even my writing can’t help me escape.
I’ve stopped working altogether, but luckily, my agent has been understanding, although that’s probably helped by all the press. My books are selling better than ever, especially Cleaners.
I never heard from Gable again, not that I expected to.
Sometimes I drive around hoping to spot him, but it’s pointless; he’s too smart to ever come back.
His face, or the old photo they found of him, is plastered all over the news.
The media have either pulled Asher and Gable apart, calling them criminals, low lives, and murderers—or praised them, telling the story of children failed by the system and forced into a life of crime to survive.
To me, Asher is just Asher. The guy I’d dated, the guy I’d fallen for, the guy with the annoying brother, who happened to tell a lie.
A really big fucking lie, Ella.
“I’m going back to the apartment on the way to the airport,” Matilda says. “Do you need me to do anything while I’m there?”
Matilda flew back from France when I told her what happened. It was originally only supposed to be for a few weeks, but now it’s been half a year, and I’m so grateful.
But now, she’s leaving again, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I shake my head. “I’m good. Just—”
“Be careful.” Matilda smiles. “I know. I will be.”
I sit on the porch and wave goodbye as she drives away.
Pulling my coat tighter around myself, I flex my fingers to work some heat into them.
Thanksgiving came and went a few days ago and it’s only getting colder, but I don’t go back inside.
Instead, I round the porch to the garden and sit on the back steps.
Motor wanders outside too and lies beside me, occasionally sighing.
“What do you need, pup?” I ask, and he rests his head on my lap. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
You’re talking to a dog, Ella.
Motor lifts his head and lets out a quiet, huffed bark. His attention fixes on the line of trees at the back of the yard, the heavy shrubbery blocking out the neighbor’s view of our home. I scan the trees, and the fence, but I can’t see anyone or anything.
Motor gets to his feet. Goose bumps ripple across my arms, and my heart lifts.
Why do I think it’s Asher? Why do I foolishly think he’s with me? Why does my mind go there when my heart can’t take it?
Motor heads down the porch steps, claws clacking against the wooden slats, and I follow. Standing in the small garden, I look around. The breeze sweeps across me, and I run my fingers through my hair, holding back a shiver.
What am I expecting? Asher to walk out of the trees and say it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding? That somehow, he survived, but he had to wait until he could tell me?
“Asher?” I whisper.
He’s dead, Ella.
But maybe he’s not.
He is, sweetheart.
But maybe …
“Asher, I’m still here,” I say, louder this time, my voice cracking. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “Please tell me if you’re here.”
I wait. Like a fool, I wait for a voice that will never come. I wait for words that will never materialize, because the man I need to hear them from is gone.
I watched his coffin get lowered. I stood at his graveside, alone, because murderers don’t get warm words or kind eulogies.
I waited, hoping that maybe Hunter would show and give me news about Gable, but he never did.
The sun dipped. The air chilled. Even when darkness fell, I stayed by Asher’s grave.
The cold had nipped at me. It had rained.
I had sat on the grass and stared at the dirt.
I visited every day for Gable.
I put down orchids and lavender.
Yes, I know for sure that Asher Flynn is dead.
So why am I standing here, waiting?
Motor sits, head tilted, eyes still on the trees, and my phone rings. Dragging my gaze from the darkness, I answer.
“Hey, baby. How are you doing?”
I try to sound chirpy. “I’m good; we’re just on the porch.”
“It’s cold outside,” my dad says. “Go in and get warm.”
Motor follows me in, and I lock the door.
“Should I come home?” he asks. “You sound off.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m honestly okay.”
It’s my dad’s first work trip away since this all started, and he’s already called me three times today.
“You know you can call me or the station—”
“Dad, you have an officer circling the block,” I say. “I’ve got everything I need. And besides, Motor will protect me, won’t you?”
Motor climbs onto the couch, looking sullen.
“That dog can’t protect his food bowl,” he says. “We should take him to a vet and see if he’s okay.”
“We will.” I lie on the couch, resting my feet near Motor’s belly. “He’s just a little blue.”
“I think you both are,” he says softly.
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve never divulged to my dad just how much I cared for Asher, but it’s clear from my reaction to his death.
I’m heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Over a man who hurt so many people.
It makes no sense, least of all to my dad, but he still treats it the same as any other heartache that I’ve gone through.
He tries too hard, he cooks too much, and he holds me when I cry.
“I’m home the day after tomorrow,” he says. “But if you need me home right now, you tell me.”
“I’m good. I love you.”
“Love you, baby.”
I put on a movie, close my eyes, and let darkness wash over me.
I never seem to sleep anymore. My dreams are too vivid to feel like I ever truly rest. It’s like I step into another world—into that waiting room in my mind.
It’s a simple white room, books piled on the floors waiting to be shelved on the bookcases built by Asher.
My characters are there. Some sitting, some standing, some animated in their excitement to be next on the page.
I see my heroines, my heroes, my villains, all waiting.
I walk by the characters I don’t know yet, but it isn’t them I’m looking for.
I’m looking for him.
It feels so real, seeing him standing there.
He smiles, and my heart does all the things it always did around him.
Too fast.
Too slow.
Just right.
He pulls me close and I swear I can feel him. I can smell him. Feel the warmth of his chest, his arms around me, the kiss he places on my head.
I squeeze my eyes closed, holding onto him for as long as I can, because I know the moment I speak, the dream will end, and he’ll be gone.
I open my eyes. Credits are rolling on the movie, the white text on black screen lending little light to the room. Asher’s face is still fresh in my mind and I shiver, wishing I could go back to sleep just to see him again. When I stretch my legs out, I realize Motor is gone.
“Motor?”
I lean up, scanning the room. He’s sitting by the front door, his tail wagging.
And being between the dream and sleep confuses me, because I smile.
“Asher.” I spring to my feet and run for the door and open it to no one. I look around, heart racing, cheeks still wet. “Asher, I—”
I step forward and something crinkles under my foot. I cover my mouth, tears flowing freely as I pick up the white and pink orchid someone left behind.