CHAPTER 55
Jameson
Olsztyn, Poland
Day Thirty-Eight Off Grid
I left the hatchback crooked behind the house with the engine ticking hot and the gun already in my hand.
The trees pressed close on three sides, black against the weak morning light. Gravel shifted under my boots, and the world blurred at the edges.
Blood loss. Adrenaline crash. Whatever they’d put in my system still dragging its hands through the back of my skull.
None of it mattered.
I had to get inside.
I crossed the yard too fast, almost went down near the old meter, and caught myself against the wall with my bad shoulder.
White pain tore through me.
I kept moving.
The lockbox was still bolted beneath the meter, empty now. The key was in my pocket because I’d taken it when I left.
My hand shook once before I forced it still.
The back door stuck again. I shoved it open and stepped into the mudroom, gun low, eyes up.
“Brynn?”
No answer.
I moved into the kitchen.
Empty.
The table. The outdated cabinets. The curtains. The drawer beside the stove where I’d hidden the backup magazine.
Nothing moved.
“Brynn!”
I cleared the kitchen first because training moved faster than panic. Corners. Windows. Hallway. The space behind the door. Then the bedroom. Bathroom. Wardrobe. Under the bed. Shower. Every place a body could fit. Every place fear could put one.
Nothing.
No blood.
No broken furniture.
No overturned chair.
No sign of a fight.
I stood in the hall with my pulse beating too hard in my throat and listened.
The house gave me nothing back.
That was when I understood what I was looking at.
Her bag was gone.
Not dropped. Not spilled. Gone.
Her coat was gone from the kitchen chair. Her boots were gone from beside the back door.
The laptop was gone from the table.
So was the charger. The hard case. The larger bags. The notebook. The small scatter of pens and receipts she made everywhere she lived for more than six hours.
The cash was gone from the flour tin. The medical supplies were gone. The burners I’d hidden beneath the towels and under the sink were gone.
She had packed the house.
I moved back into the bedroom slower this time.
Not because I wanted to.
Because my body had finally started understanding what my mind refused to finish.
The small London bag sat beside the bed.
The only bag left.
Inside were a few shirts, socks, and my spare glasses.
The ring box rested on top.
Empty.
My hand tightened around the gun until the grip bit into torn skin.
No.
I crossed to the bag.
The box felt too small in my hand.
Too light.
I opened it.
The ring was gone.
Inside was a photograph.
Us on the mountain.
Smiling.
Sunlit.
Happy.
I stared at her smile.
She was glowing in that picture. Happy. Sun-warmed. Eyes crinkled in that way she got when she forgot to be guarded.
The weight in my chest cracked open.
Not sudden.
Worse.
A slow implosion, like my heart had folded in on itself without warning.
A cold, clean collapse.
My free hand went to my chest before I could stop it. I gasped once, like that would help.
Is this what dying feels like?
For no reason that made sense, I turned the photo over.
Just to hold something.
And there it was.
Her handwriting.
I’m sorry.
I will always love you.
Always.
I ran my thumb over the letters.
There was a bump on the glossy paper. A tiny ripple.
It could’ve been water damage.
Could’ve been a tear.
Either way, I wasn’t sure if it was hers.
Or mine.
***
I sat there, bleeding.
Alone.
Photo in one hand. Empty ring box in the other.
For the first time, maybe ever, I didn’t know what to do.
I couldn’t be sure how much time passed.
Only that I kept reminding myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Again.
My throat tightened.
Something broke loose in my chest.
And before I could stop it, I roared.
The sound tore out of me raw and unfamiliar. Animal.
I threw the ring box across the room. It hit the wall and bounced, harmless. Useless.
I crumpled forward, photo clutched to my chest like it could bring her back.
“Dammit, Brynn,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you wait?”
But I already knew the answer.
I did this to us.