Chapter Thirteen
Zayn
I went and hooked up the generator, the familiar hum providing a thin reassurance that we’ll have power through this.
The storm has finally passed, leaving the air washed clean and the world outside shining with sunlight, steam rising off the wet earth.
The trees drip, the grass sparkles, and the sky is a brilliant blue, but the cabin is still running on lantern light and the faint flicker of the generator.
It might be daytime, but the power company won’t reach us for days, maybe weeks.
The house feels quieter after the storm, like the world is holding its breath.
We’re all gathered in the living room, windows thrown open to let in the fresh, rain-washed breeze.
Ayla is curled up into Alex on the couch, her legs tucked tight, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Dean’s in the recliner, feet up, gaze thoughtful as he watches sunlight spill across the floor.
I sprawl on the other end of the couch, absently drumming my fingers on my knee, the scent of damp earth and pine drifting in with every gust.
There’s a hush, a peaceful lull that settles over us—a rare moment where nothing hurts and no one has to pretend.
Ayla lets out a soft sigh, her head resting on Alex’s shoulder.
Alex glances down at her, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, his touch gentle, and for a few heartbeats, everything feels almost normal.
Dean looks over, offering Ayla a small, easy smile, and she smiles back, the tension in her shoulders slowly melting away.
For the first time in a long while, the four of us just sit together in the quiet, letting the wind outside be nothing but background noise.
I close my eyes for a second, soaking up the calm, the way laughter and pain both seem far away.
Then Ayla shifts, stretching out her legs, and the mood lightens just a bit more. “I’m bored,” she sighs, and without thinking, I blurt, “I can fix that,” shooting her a wink.
Alex and Dean both grin, and Ayla rolls her eyes, cheeks pink. “Stooop,” she laughs, clearly embarrassed, but she doesn’t pull away when I reach over and stroke her calf, my fingers tracing lazy circles against her skin.
Suddenly, all our phones beep at once—an emergency alert slicing through the cozy hush of the living room. Instinct kicks in, and I grab the remote, flipping on the TV. After a few seconds of static, the screen sharpens into a breaking news banner, the urgent music prickling over my skin.
A polished anchorwoman appears, every detail sharp and composed, her voice grave and unyielding beneath the studio lights.
“We interrupt your programming with breaking news out of New York City. Police are searching for missing twenty-year-old Ayla Barron, the fiancée of murdered attorney Derek Bates. Barron was last seen leaving her home late the night of the murder with an unidentified man dressed in black on a motorcycle, according to a witness—though this detail has not been independently verified. Authorities say they have no suspects at this time and no physical evidence linking anyone to the murder of Mr. Bates. The investigation has stalled, and police are urging anyone with information on Ayla Barron’s whereabouts to come forward.
If you have seen Ayla Barron or the unidentified man, please contact local law enforcement or the FBI tip line displayed at the bottom of your screen. ”
The camera cuts to Ayla’s photo—her face larger than life, frozen in a moment of joy, her smile a stark contrast to the grim broadcast. The anchorwoman’s tone softens: “Friends and family describe Barron as bright, ambitious, and deeply loved. Anyone with information is urged to reach out—her loved ones are desperate for answers.” The photo lingers, her features washed in the studio’s cold light, a haunting reminder of all that’s at stake.
In the living room, everything goes still.
I feel Ayla tense beside Alex, her knuckles white where she grips the cushion.
None of us breathe. The only sound is the soft hum of the television.
Relief prickles through me at the mention of ‘no suspects’—no DNA, no evidence, no trace.
I see it in Dean and Alex too, the way their shoulders drop, the way tension unspools from their bodies.
For now, we’re still ghosts—off the grid, invisible.
But the world is starting to hunt, and we all feel the net tightening, inch by inch.
The anchorwoman’s voice fades, the TV cutting to a montage of police tape, flashing lights, and the city skyline blurred in the rain. I’m the first to break the silence, my voice low and tense: “If they have no suspects, then they didn’t find any DNA, Alex. Nothing to tie any of us to Derek.”
Alex lets out a long, shaky breath, tension finally easing from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “No DNA, no murder weapon, no evidence. It doesn’t seem like they’ve even got a solid timeline. Just a witness saying Ayla left with a guy on a motorcycle. That’s it.”
Dean leans forward, eyes glued to the TV as the anchorwoman continues: “Police sources confirm there are no promising leads. Surveillance footage from the neighborhood is limited due to technical outages the night of the murder, and so far, no witnesses have been able to positively identify the man seen leaving with Ms. Barron. The investigation remains open, but with no physical evidence or suspects, authorities admit the case is stuck at a standstill.”
Dean’s face is still serious, “Even if the cops go cold, I don’t think Nathan is going to stop looking for her. She’s supposed to be his now.”
We all exchange glances, the weight of what that means pressing in. The news report drones on in the background, Ayla’s face flickering across the screen, her name repeated over and over, the words ‘no suspects’ and ‘no evidence’ like a strange kind of blessing.
Ayla is the one to finally break the tension, her voice softer but steady, a calm smile warming her lips.
She shifts a little closer to Alex on the couch, pulling her knees up and letting her head rest back, just breathing for a moment.
“Hey,” she says, quieter than before, “we’re okay.
We’re together. That’s more than I thought I’d get a few days ago. ”
Her eyes find each of us in turn, steady and a little teasing, like she’s daring us to disagree.
“If they haven’t come for me yet, then they don’t know where we are.
They won’t be able to find me as long as we stay hidden out here, right?
And you said we’re stuck here until the water recedes.
” There’s a gentle humor in her voice, and the corners of her mouth curve up, more genuine than I’ve seen since that first night.
“So… we’re safe for now. Let’s just breathe for a second. ”
A beat of real calm settles, and Ayla draws in a long breath, letting it out slowly. She nudges Alex with her shoulder and gives Dean a sideways grin. “Okay, so what do you guys actually do for fun out here? Cards? Board games? Secret cabin rituals?”
Dean grins, a mischievous light in his eyes, and I know exactly what he’s about to say. “Well, Alex, you do have those four-wheelers out back, and it’s wet as hell outside…”
Ayla glances between us, nervous but genuinely amused now. “I’m in a T-shirt, Dean,” she protests, tugging at the oversized T-shirt she borrowed from Zayn. “This is barely a dress, you know.”
Dean just winks. “Don’t worry about that.” He tosses her a pair of rubber boots and a hoodie. “Come on.”
She laughs, pulling them on, and before she can argue again, Dean grabs her hand, and they disappear out the back door, laughter trailing behind them.
It’s not normal—nothing about any of this is normal.
But the calm Ayla brought into the room lingers, and as the laughter echoes behind them and the rest of us watch from inside, it feels right.
For once, despite the chaos and uncertainty, this stolen moment belongs to us.
Dean
I head over to the garage, feeling the ground squish with each step—muddy trails are going to make this even more fun.
It’s cold out here, the kind of raw chill that seeps through your clothes and turns your breath to fog, but not quite cold enough for snow or to freeze the ground.
Guess I'm gonna have to keep her warm. The sky is that pale winter gray, and the last leaves are long gone from the trees, branches stark against the muted light.
I unlock the side door and hit the main garage door button, sunlight pouring in as it rattles open.
Inside, two four-wheelers wait, caked in old mud, keys already dangling from the ignitions.
“Come on!” I holler at Ayla, waving her over. “You ever been on one of these?
She makes her way over, eyeing the machines with a nervous grin. “No, never. I’m a city girl,” she giggles, shaking her head. "You’re going to have to promise not to let me drive off a cliff, Dean."
I straddle the bigger four-wheeler and catch her as she heads for the other one. “Absolutely not, newbie,” I say—deep, stern, but playful—patting the seat in front of me. “Come sit. I’ll show you what to do.”
She laughs and climbs on in front of me, her back pressed to my chest as I settle in behind her. "You know, I have a feeling you just want an excuse to hold me," she teases, glancing over her shoulder.
“Guilty,” I admit, grinning. I gently position her hands on the handlebars, guiding her fingers over the throttle and her feet onto the pegs beside mine. “Alright, this is the start switch, and here’s the gas. Squeeze smooth, not too fast.”
She nods, determined, and when I tell her to try it, she jerks forward with a startled shriek. I can’t help but laugh, steadying her with my hands. “Slower than that. Easy, Ayla. Unless you want to end up in the lake early.”