Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jennifer
Brimley’s furry head nudges my hand that had paused its stroking when I opened my Instagram.
“Sorry, boy,” I tell him absentmindedly while sitting a little straighter and resuming the petting. But the organ in my chest aches further with each picture I flick through.
Jersey and Matt holding hands.
Jersey and Matt kissing.
Jersey and Matt with their hands up, confetti caught mid-air around them.
Jersey and Matt cutting a cake.
Jersey and Marni with their heads pressed together, grinning wide.
Jersey and Matt finally got married, and I wasn’t a part of it—not that I really expected to be. We haven’t been friends for some time now.
I tried for more than a couple of years. I think we all did. But I couldn’t bounce back to the person I was before that night, no matter how much effort I made. I felt broken and irreparable.
Even when I managed to start living a somewhat normal life again, our interests no longer aligned.
They liked being social and going to parties or gatherings. But parties made me anxious and I’d break into a sweat.
They liked to drink and be carefree, while I couldn’t stop being cautious, either choosing bottled water or watching every step of my drink being made.
Eventually, any invites they may have sent my way stopped coming, and we became more like acquaintances. At some point, that faded into no longer reaching out.
I’ve still followed their lives from the sidelines, checking their social media, always with longing in my chest and a sad smile on my face.
They all look happy.
“Hey, Jen, did you manage to clean all those kennels?”
Quickly closing my screen, I look up at Simone poking her head through the door. “Yeah, I did. I was just giving Brimley some love before leaving.”
Brimley, the eight-year-old German Shepherd, who was dropped off at this shelter about six months ago, has yet to be adopted. The poor thing was so scared and skittish at first, but he has since warmed up to most of the staff and volunteers.
That’s who I am—a volunteer. Someone who cleans kennels and does whatever other odd jobs the real staff doesn’t want to do. Not the person people bring their pets to so I can help them get better. That dream died a while ago.
Maybe someday I’ll revisit it.
I glance down at Brimley. At least I get to spend time with these guys and take them for walks. If I weren’t living in a building my father owned and was adamant of no pets of any sort, I’d have taken him home with me a while ago.
“Thanks, Jennifer. And thank you for those delicious cookies you brought in.” She taps the doorframe. “I’m leaving for the day. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“You, too.”
Her leaving is my cue to get up and go as well. I don’t like staying when it’s just Mike and Colin here, the evening shift employees. They’ve never done or said anything wrong; in fact they’re quite friendly—but I had thought the same thing about Jacob.
After saying goodbye to Brimley and the other animals, I give the guys a quick wave and go to my car. It’s only when I’ve slid into the driver’s seat and see the folder on the passenger side that I remember Dad had asked me to stop by the building Dylan works at and drop it off to him.
“Shit.” I sigh, dropping my head back. That’s the last thing I want to do.
At least it’s late enough that Dylan should be gone and I can just leave it on his desk.
Pursing my lips, I pull out of my parking spot and drive to his building.
After walking in through the front, I send a small wave to some familiar faces still lingering in the building, then ride the elevator up and approach the door at the end of the short hall where Dylan’s office is located.
Hesitant. Wary.
I’m always thankful we don’t work in the same building.
It’s not just because I feel uncomfortable being alone with a man, but something about him specifically raises the hair on my neck and puts me on edge.
The few encounters I’ve had with him since that night have always brought on an inexplicable slimy sensation that crawls over my body. I assumed it was a normal reaction that I’d have toward all men, only it hasn’t been the case with others.
Maybe it’s just that his arrogant attitude has increased while working with my father, especially since the amount of work he’s taken over in the company has risen substantially. He’s my dad’s righthand man—a dream Dad wanted for me once upon a time.
Dylan should be gone for the day, but just in case, I press my ear against his office door, listening for any noise on the other side.
I jump out of my skin with a squeak when two hands land on my shoulders. “Guess who.”
Dread immediately rises in my gut at hearing those words, and I spin around, backing up against the wall. When I see Dylan staring down at me, a rush of air bursts from my lungs, and I press a shaky hand to my chest. “You startled me.”
Raising his palms, his lips curl. “Sorry.”
The apology is as fake as his smile. He doesn’t give a shit what happened to me all those years ago, or that he almost triggered a full-on meltdown right here in the office.
“What can I do for you?” Dylan reaches for the handle and pushes the door open, walking into the large office with confidence like he owns the place.
Exhaling, I try to calm my thumping heart. Thankfully, the bright blue color of his polo shirt makes him look less intimidating, and slowly, I walk in after him.
“I didn’t realize you’d still be here this late,” I comment, ignoring his question.
“I was in and out all day, and I technically finished earlier. I just stopped in to grab some things.”
That would explain why he’s dressed so casually. Apart from his slicked back hair, he looks like he’s going golfing.
It’s just my luck to come at this very moment instead of any other time he was gone.
Dylan walks behind his desk on the far side of the room, and I watch as he scoops up a hoodie from his chair and pulls it over his head. A red hoodie.
An image of the red-hooded person leading me away from the party flashes in my mind, and suddenly, the reason why I’m here scatters.
The image plays on repeat, and something about the memory pokes at the back of my mind. I couldn’t see his face because the hood was up.
“Well?”
Dylan’s question brings me back, and I blink a few times, his face, and the hoodie, coming back into focus. But the thought and the flashes of memory don’t leave my head; instead they pound at the walls of my mind like something trying to break free.
“I, umm . . .” My eyes drop to the red once more, my stomach clenching.
Jacob wasn’t wearing a hoodie, though. I remember tearing his T-shirt when I reached for it while falling.
Didn’t I?
Yes. He must have taken it off.
“Here, take this. You’re cold.”
That’s right. He took it off at some point and offered it to me.
“Here, take this. You’re cold.”
My eyes squeeze shut, trying to shake the memory, but something keeps stirring, poking and prodding that same spot in my mind.
“Here, take this. You’re cold.” He holds it out to me . . .
But it’s not a red hoodie.
It’s a black sweater.
No. It had to be red.
I remember seeing the red hood when we were walking, and I had thought about not liking that color.
No. I’m misremembering what I saw. I have to be. It’s been so long that I’m confusing the image in my mind.
But why did Jacob even offer it to me, especially after hurting me? In my messed-up mind, I hadn’t questioned it.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, little princess?”
My eyes pop open at Dylan’s voice, or more importantly, his words, and I stare at him, my breath freezing in my lungs. “What did you say?”
Dylan holds my gaze, head tilted with a curious smile as he sits in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach. But he doesn’t answer.
Little princess. I’m sure that’s what he said. No one calls me that. At least, no one before or since that night.
Words and memories swim through my mind in a spinning motion, not allowing me to grab hold and make sense of the thoughts. Turning and twisting. There’s something right there, just out of reach.
What am I missing?
“Here, take this.”
Black sweater. Black sweater. Black sweater.
It wasn’t red.
“Or what, little princess?”
Jacob’s devastated eyes stare back at me as he’s being led away.
Why?
And then suddenly, everything comes to a screeching halt as realization slams into me, each piece of evidence catapulting me to the same conclusion.
The slimy feelings. The knowing glint in his eyes any time I’ve seen him. The similar words and phrases.
All color leeches from my face as a loud thumping echoes in my ears.
Dylan called me a fucking tease when I wouldn’t go any further with him. He was bitter about me rejecting him . . .
I watch as his smile slowly drops, his eyes hardening, as if those same thoughts slipped out of my mind and reached into his.
How did I not see this before?
But the police couldn’t have gotten it wrong, could they?
The evidence lined up, didn’t it?
Jacob was there.
“I’m trying to help you.”
But I think Dylan was there first . . .
My throat closes, heart going wild.
“I, um . . . I was just going to drop this on your desk.” I try to make my voice steady, but it comes out weak and scratchy. And he can tell.
Air.
Escape.
I need both now.
The folder has barely touched his desk before I’m backing up and turning, trying to rush out as quickly as possible.
But Dylan anticipates it, jumping to his feet and using his longer legs to his advantage.
I scramble to reach the open door, but his hand whips out and slams the wood shut in my face.
“Where do you think you’re going, hmm?” He plants a firm hand on the door above my hand, making sure to keep it closed.
Fear squeezes my lungs, making my breaths come out in short bursts. “I-I have other things I need to do.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe you.”