Chapter 24
Sara Parker — Reading Lauren's Journal
I told myself I wouldn’t write about Keller.
I’m writing about him anyway.
After Benton—after walking in on him with that student—I thought humiliation had limits. I was wrong. Everyone could feel it when I walked by: the woman who didn’t know. The fool who thought she mattered.
Keller noticed.
He always noticed things—my coffee going cold, how my laugh disappeared. He began stopping by my desk with reasons that weren’t reasons.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he said once, quiet enough for only me.
For days he lingered in doorways, kind and patient. He leaned on the edge of my desk, sleeves rolled, that easy smile he gave everyone—but with me, it felt intimate. Intentional.
Then one night, after classes ended, he asked me to stop by his office.
“Just to talk,” he said. “You’ve been carrying too much alone.”
There was bourbon on the shelf, half gone. He poured two fingers and slid the glass toward me.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said. “Benton never deserved you.”
I laughed automatically. “You’re married, Professor Keller.”
His eyes softened, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Separated. Divorce is in motion. It’s been a long time coming.”
I wanted to believe him. God help me, I did.
He told me I had a mind that could light a room. That I was wasted on men who only saw the surface. That I deserved something honest.
When he touched my hand, I didn’t pull away.
He said he’d rented an apartment in town—temporary, while things settled.
“Come by sometime,” he said. “Let me make you dinner.”
I went.
Because he made me feel seen—because after Benton, I needed to believe someone could look at me and not see a mistake.
Dinner was soft music and candlelight—quiet enough to trick you into thinking you were safe.
He kissed me like it was a secret we’d already agreed on.
And I let him.
Days later, she came. His wife.
She found me in the Humanities hallway, one hand resting on her stomach—the subtle curve unmistakable. She smiled, kind and tired.
“Have you seen my husband? He’s been hard to catch lately.”
Before I could answer, Keller stepped out of his office.
“Oh—hey, honey,” he said too brightly, sliding an arm around her waist. “How was the ultrasound? I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It was wonderful, Daddy,” she said, smiling as she patted her stomach.
I don’t remember walking away.
I remember the sound my heart made.
He’d lied—about all of it. About her. About the apartment. About me.
And she—she had no idea.
I sat in my car until dark, staring at the building lights, and tried to count how many pieces a person can break into before there’s nothing left.
Sara Parker — The Writer’s Room
By the fourth day, the fear had stopped feeling sharp. It had settled into something colder.
Sara closed the journal, fingers trembling against the worn leather.
Lauren’s heartbreak didn’t just linger—it saturated the room. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was erasure.
Still, she felt watched—like the walls were listening.
She traced the journal’s torn corner with her thumb.
“God, Lauren,” she whispered. “You didn’t even stand a chance.”
The intercom clicked on.
“Deputy.”
Sara didn’t move. Her grip tightened on the journal.
“You should know,” the voice continued pleasantly, “I was at the search this morning.”
Her head lifted slowly. “You were there?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Paper shifted on the other end. Casual. Domestic.
“With Sheriff Scott. Deputy Wilson. The Bureau. The whole town, really. Quite impressive.”
Her pulse climbed. “Why?”
“I gave them another clue.”
The words dropped heavy.
“A clue?”
“Yes. I took your first writings and placed them in Tom Grady’s tree stand up on Miller’s Ridge. I wanted them to know you’re alive.”
Her gaze snapped to the bookshelf.
The blue journal.
Gone.
Not shifted. Not misplaced.
Gone.
She stared at the narrow gap on the shelf, her mind scrambling.
How?
Her eyes swept the room—the sealed door, the vents, the corners.
The mornings she woke with her tongue thick and her thoughts fogged.
The hours she couldn’t account for.
The unnatural sleep.
A cold realization slid through her.
He could come in.
He could stand over her.
He could move things. He could touch her.
Drugged.
Her hand jerked away from the glass of water on the desk.
“I thought hope would motivate them,” he said gently. “It did.”
Her heart pounded hard enough to blur her vision.
“But then the weather turned.”
His tone warmed.
“A blizzard. Like the heavens opened and smiled on us.”
“Agent Quinn and Deputy Wilson are up at the Grady cabin now,” he continued. “Snowed in. Roads closed. No extraction possible until the storm passes.”
Up there.
Together.
“They tried,” he added softly. “The entire town. Quite touching.”
Her hands trembled at her sides.
“But safety comes first,” he said. “You understand.”
Static hissed faintly.
“I imagine it must be… complicated,” he went on. “Knowing he’s up there.”
Her chest tightened.
“Stranded,” he clarified. “With her.”
The image came uninvited.
Firelight.
Two bodies in a narrow space.
Warmth shared because there was no other choice.
“You care for him,” the voice said.
She didn’t answer.
Because if she did, something inside her would split open.
“He is a good man,” he continued. “Protective. Loyal.”
“Agent Quinn is impressive,” he added. “Beautiful. Accomplished. Strong.”
Each word pressed where it would bruise.
“They are well suited.”
Jealousy flared, sharp and humiliating.
It shocked her.
Scout deserved happiness.
And yet the thought of him with Tessa—
It cut clean through her.
Then guilt followed, hot and choking.
How could she resent that?
How could she wish him alone just to quiet her own ache?
The room felt smaller.
“Write it down, Deputy,” he said softly. “Tell me what it feels like to be left behind.”
Left behind.
Abandoned.
“There is nothing else to do,” he added. “Use your time wisely.”
The intercom clicked off.
Silence crashed in.
She crossed to the radio and twisted the dial through static. A country station crackled past. A weather alert tone cut sharp across the room. Then a local news voice came through—steady, professional, practiced.
“—this is WJCK News at Noon. I’m Alainna Williams reporting live from Sylva. Blizzard conditions continue across Jackson County with wind gusts reaching sixty miles per hour along higher elevations. Officials have confirmed secondary roads remain closed and emergency response access is limited.”
A pause. Papers shuffling faintly.
“The search for Deputy Sara Parker of the Jackson County Sheriff’s Office has been temporarily suspended due to severe weather conditions.
Sheriff Burke Scott issued a statement earlier this morning saying, quote, ‘Safety of our personnel is paramount. We will resume coordinated search efforts as soon as conditions allow.’”
Another pause.
“At this time, authorities have not released additional details regarding Deputy Parker’s disappearance. Community members are urged to remain indoors and report any relevant information once travel conditions improve.”
The anchor’s tone didn’t waver.
Her name sounded distant. Official. Almost theoretical.
Sara shut the radio off.
For one breath—just one—the loneliness hit hard enough to make her vision blur.
He wanted jealousy.
He wanted despair.
He wanted her to unravel.
What if the storm ended and life did too?
What if she became something spoken about in past tense?
Her fingers hovered over the keys, cold metal beneath her skin.
Jealousy was a luxury.
Hope was a weapon.
And she wasn’t giving him either.
She began to type.
Not about abandonment.
Not about blizzards.
She wrote about survival.
She wrote about patience.
Let him think he was steering her.
He wanted a confession.
He would get a story.
But it would not be the one he expected.