31. Natalie
CHAPTER 31
NATALIE
T he first rays of morning light do nothing to ease the lingering darkness of my thoughts as I wake up, restless and worried.
Without hesitation, I reach for my phone, its screen a burst of light in the dimness of early dawn. I send a quick text to Jack, checking in to make sure he's still okay after everything that's happened. The tension doesn't lift until I see his response pop up—short and reassuring. He’ll be discharged today after a final check-up. Relief washes over me, albeit briefly.
I can pick you up.
I text back quickly, eager to do something, anything, to help.
Jack
No worries, I'll get an Uber. Thanks though.
His reply is just as quick, his independence shining through despite the circumstances. I guess that's something we have in common.
With a sigh, I switch my focus to Julian, hoping for some reassurance from him, too. I send him a text, then dial his number, but each ring that goes unanswered tightens the knot of anxiety in my stomach. When it goes to voicemail, my heart sinks.
Why isn’t he answering? Did something happen to him last night?
Or is he giving me the silent treatment after our argument? The thought irks me. It makes it clearer than ever that when things get tough, we crumble.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, in the secluded peace of the cabin, I was close to telling Julian about the baby. But how are we supposed to raise a child together without a solid foundation? When every day with us tends to be one step forward, three steps back?
Frustration and a need for answers drive me out of bed. Now, engulfed in doubts about our future together, I'm wrestling with the fear that perhaps we are indeed too different to make this relationship work. His insistence on protecting me, on trying to keep me away from any potential harm, clashes fundamentally with my need for independence, to face challenges head-on without being shielded.
I can’t let this sit; I can’t wait around for someone to come along and rescue me.
Dressing quickly, I resolve to see the situation at the Langford for myself. I can't let someone else's protective instincts dictate my actions, not even if they come from a place of love. I'm not going to watch my own life from the sidelines—not again.
Grabbing my keys, I head to my car, the cool morning air feeling sharp against my skin as I step outside. The drive to the building is quick, but my mind races faster, turning over our last conversation, each word Julian said, each word I fired back. The hurt in his voice, the frustration in mine—it all swirls together into a painful knot.
When I arrive, the sight that greets me does little to ease my anxiety. The building is in an alarming state, wrapped dramatically in yellow police tape that flutters slightly in the morning breeze. The tape seals off the entrance, a clear no-go for anyone thinking of stepping inside.
I turn off the engine and sit for a moment, watching. The area is quieter now than it must have been yesterday; the initial commotion has died down, but the presence of police tape and a few lingering officers suggest the gravity of what happened. I steel myself, knowing I need to see the damage, to understand fully what we’re dealing with.
With no response from Julian, my worry deepens, mixing with frustration and the chilling realization of how serious our situation has become. Alone with my thoughts, I watch the building, considering for the first time that Julian may have been right.
Emerging from my car, I pause for a moment to take in the damage.
The Langford Art Building, once a place of potential and promise, now looks like a scene from a crime drama—broken columns, walls defaced with spray paint, and shards of glass scattered like icy confetti from smashed windows. The destruction is visceral, and a pang of sorrow hits me as I survey the damage. Emotions I've been holding at bay threaten to spill over.
It looks so sad, so unlike the hopeful beginning it had promised. The sight of it, so ruined and deserted, brings a lump to my throat. I want to cry, to mourn not just for the building and the project, but everything else that seems to be crumbling around me—my relationship with Julian, the safety of my brother, and the normalcy of our lives.
I survey the barrier of police tape, contemplating the best way to get through. A police officer, still on scene, notices me taking in the damage. He approaches with a look of concern. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his tone professional yet sympathetic.
“I’m Natalie Williams. I’m overseeing the renovation here, and—Jack Williams is my brother,” I manage to say, my voice steady despite the tumult of emotions I'm feeling.
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother, ma'am. We’re all hoping for his quick recovery,” the officer replies, his eyes kind. “We’re doing everything we can to catch whoever did this.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that,” I respond, forcing a small smile as I look around at the damage once more. “Did you manage to catch any of it on camera?”
“Yes, we got some footage. It’s not as clear as we’d like, but it’s been sent off for analysis,” he explains, watching me carefully, likely gauging how much to share. “The person seemed... overconfident. Made some mistakes. We’re hopeful it’ll lead to something actionable.”
I nod, absorbing his words. “Have you investigated Mason Phillips?” I ask, the name coming out sharper than intended, my own suspicions about the former colleague of Julian’s looming large in my mind.
The officer's expression shifts slightly, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps caution—crossing his features. “Yes, we’re looking into several individuals with potential motives, including Mr. Phillips. We’re taking every lead seriously.”
“Good,” I say, more to myself than to him. The confirmation that Mason is a person of interest does little to ease my anxiety, but it’s a start. I’m glad Julian brought his name to the investigators’ attention.
The officer gives me a nod, his demeanor reassuring. “We’ll keep you updated, Ms. Williams. In the meantime, please stay safe. This person is still out there, and we don’t want anyone taking unnecessary risks.”
His words are meant to comfort, but they serve as a reminder of the danger still at large, the shadow that has been cast over everything I care about. I thank him and move away, looking for another not-so-obvious place to cross the police tape. Each step takes me through more destruction, more evidence of hate or anger directed at what we were building here.
As much as Julian wants to shield me from it, I’m already in the thick of it—by choice and by circumstance. But maybe that's enough, maybe I shouldn't go looking for more. I'm torn between my need to know and my growing fear for my own safety.
Just as I’m about to step over a line of tape, a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Natalie!” The tone is sharp, urgent.
I freeze, my foot hovering just above the ground, then slowly turn around. Julian is striding towards me, his expression thunderous. He looks different—his usually composed demeanor is replaced by one of raw irritation, and his eyes burn with an intensity that stops me in my tracks.
“What are you doing here?” he demands as he approaches. His chest heaves as though he’s been running, and there’s a wildness about him that I’ve never seen before. His concern is palpable, almost tangible enough to touch.
I open my mouth to explain, but the words catch in my throat. The look in his eyes, the set of his jaw—it’s not the overprotectiveness and paranoia I’ve become accustomed to from him.
It’s fear.