Chapter 9 #2
The air stabs me—early-cold that feels like freedom for one breath before it seeps into my bones. The yard lies still, everything holding its breath. Trees stand like dark sentinels against a pale sky. Low clouds hang heavy, brooding.
I don’t look back. If I do, I might lose my nerve.
It’s not warmth or safety or comfort. But Jacob has made himself part of my daily routine—he’s woven himself into my days, into the quickening of my breath, into my flinch at any kindness.
He’s in the way I walk now, shoulders rounded, steps hushed.
And now he’s learned to fill the ache between my legs.
The road lies empty. I pick up my pace. The trees thin and houses peek through the woods.
The world feels raw again—unguarded, unfiltered.
Each breath tastes clearer. Each step feels my own.
I pass the mailbox, the overgrown fence with its rusted “Beware of Dog” sign—there hasn’t been a dog here in years.
I slip onto the abandoned trail behind the orchard: quieter than the road.
Slower. Safer. Not from Jacob, but from questions.
I used to walk this path all the time—when I still laughed, still had people, when my knees were bruised from dancing barefoot in the rain and falling over, not from punishment.
The trail sweeps toward what used to be Constance’s backyard.
I haven’t been here in months—not since I was sent to live with Jacob.
He told me they didn’t truly care, that they’d abandon me if they knew the truth.
That they wouldn’t want to be involved in the danger surrounding me.
He made me believe that. When you strip everything away, the leftover voice starts to feel real.
They had come to my home with Mama and Papa for my birthday, filled with the lies that I had chosen to be with Jacob. They’d tried to press me on it, but Jacob had warned me not to say a word.
Roots snag my shoes. Thorns rip at my joggers, but I press on—because if I turn back now, I’ll never try again. I need to see them. Even if they despise me. Even if I can’t meet their eyes. Even if they glimpse what he’s done and never see me the same way again.
Their house is smaller than I remember. The siding is peeling in places.
The porch sags slightly left. Wind chimes clink in the soft breeze like they’re whispering secrets.
I stop at the tree line. My chest tightens.
What if they’re not home? What if they are?
What if I knock and they look at me like I’m not me anymore? What if they’re right?
I don't notice I’m crying until a tear freezes on my cheek. I brush it away, stand tall, and cross the yard with borrowed courage. My hand hovers above the door, then I knock.
Once. Twice.
The door opens slowly, revealing Constance. Her hair looks darker than the last time I saw her, her eyes as piercing as ever. She looks tired but not weak—she never was. She freezes when she sees me, her gaze scanning my tee, my shoes, and finally my face. She says nothing.
I swallow hard.
“Hi,” I say.
Constance’s jaw tightens as she steps back.
“Get inside.” It’s not a greeting, but a command—a lifeline.
Her curls are piled high, sleep softening her features. But when she truly sees me, the color drains from her face, as if a string has been cut. I attempt to speak, smile, act normal, but something heavy and painful lodges behind my ribs.
She steps forward, forgetting the mug, her eyes tracing the hollows of my face.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispers.
Behind her, footsteps halt and silence follows. Adelaide appears in the doorway, her arms hanging at her sides. Her gaze moves slowly, as if she’s afraid looking too quickly will make me disappear. No one speaks for what feels like forever.
Adelaide moves first, approaching with careful precision, as if I’m both fragile and wild. Her hand gently wraps around my wrist, guiding me inside as she’d done countless times—as if I’d never left.
The scent hits me first—lemon balm, rosemary, warm linen, and old paper.
I inhale it like a memory. The house is unchanged.
Records scatter across the floor like old lovers.
The same fraying quilt drapes over the couch arm.
Even the one-eared, ill-tempered cat acknowledges me with a glance before settling back to sleep. Everything remains the same.
Except for me.
I sink into the armchair like I don’t belong. Like I’ve been molded into something uglier than the girl who used to laugh here. I fold into myself, but the bruises won’t let me hide. They scream louder than I do.
Constance pulls the stool in front of me and lowers herself down, her eyes wide and glassy. She doesn’t speak right away. She just looks—like she’s trying to count every piece of me that’s been broken.
“What’s happened?” she asks at last, her voice softer than I remember. “You look like death warmed up. Has that son of a bitch hurt you?”
I nod.
Her mouth opens slightly, but no words follow.
Adelaide sets her mug on the table and reaches for the incense stick she always lights in moments like this. She sparks it; smoke rises in thin ribbons of lavender and earth—a silent attempt to smooth over what none of us can say.
Constance’s tone sharpens. “That fucking piece of shit!”
I stay silent.
Leaning forward, Constance braces her hands on her knees. “You need to leave him, Summer. Now.”
I nod again—slowly, hesitantly.
“I know.” My own voice startles me—small, splintered, like it belongs to someone else. “But it’s not that simple.”
Adelaide’s answer is a blade. “It is. You pack up and walk away while he’s at work.”
I drop my gaze to my lap, my nails digging crescents into my palms. “And he’ll find me. He’s the sheriff. It’s what he does. He will always find me. And there are worse people than him out there.”
Constance’s expression softens, but her voice trembles between fury and worry. She reaches for my hand, squeezing like she can anchor me back into the room.
“Summer… what’s going on?” Her eyes search mine. “We never understood why you flipped like that. You hated him. We used to hide from him, laugh about him stalking you. Is that what this is? Are you so scared of him that you caved?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s not about fear,” I whisper. The words drag up my throat like glass. “It’s something else….”
The room goes still.
At last, it rips out of me. “I think… ugh—” My voice cracks. “I can’t explain it.”
Silence swells, thick and unbearable.
“I hate him,” I breathe, each word trembling. “But he’s keeping me safe. Safe from men who are much, much worse than him.”
Constance’s face shifts—familiar and alien at the same time—her eyes darting over me like she’s trying to make sense of a puzzle with missing pieces. Adelaide exhales, concern radiating from her breath.
“What men?” she asks.
“I’m not supposed to tell a soul,” I whisper. My head shakes like I can fling the words back into the dark where they belong. “I’m going batshit crazy.”
“Summer,” Adelaide snaps, a little harsher now, but her voice trembles. “This is us. You, me, Connie. We don’t keep secrets. Let us help you. Talk to us.”
“I know,” I murmur, torn between relief and panic. “I know….”
The name crawls up my throat like splinters.
“Jackson Moore.”
Their brows knit in unison. I keep going, the words tumbling out—unstoppable now.
“After Papa put him away, some guys—Jackson’s guys—started taking photos. Of me. Of Mama and Papa. There was one of me asleep in bed with a note on the back.” My voice drops to a hiss. “They were going to take me.”
Constance’s mouth falls open. Adelaide’s knuckles whiten around her mug.
“The police are hunting them. They’re doing what they can, and Jackson’s still behind bars, so…
.” My laugh breaks—hollow. “So technically there’s no need to worry.
” I drag my hands down my face. “One thing is certain: Jacob won’t let anyone hurt me.
Well—” My voice falters. “Anyone other than himself.”
Their eyes lock on me, wide and stricken. And for the first time, I don’t look away.
Adelaide rests her hand on my knee, stroking gently, her smile too soft, too pitying. It makes me want to slap myself. I used to be stronger than this—louder. One of the girls who spoke too much, too often, never afraid to tell a teacher off if I thought they were wrong.
They used to joke I’d follow Papa into the courthouse one day. Now look at me—sitting here like a child asking permission to breathe.
“Do you have any sort of plan?” Constance asks finally, her voice careful, like she’s afraid I don’t.
“I do.” I swallow hard. “Blackwood. You remember when I told you both about the medical school acceptance? They offer housing. As soon as applications open, I’m gone. But I need to use your address for any mail. Jacob can’t know. If he finds out, it’s over before it begins.”
Adelaide nods immediately, glancing at Constance and back to me. “Of course. That’s solid. But—” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Why don’t you let us book you a hotel for now? Out of town. I can cover it. I’ve still got half my inheritance. I don’t need it back.”
The offer slices through me—hope and fear tangled. “Thank you,” I whisper, “but right now… I’m safer with Jacob. As stupid as that sounds.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it—hot and humiliating.
Adelaide’s hand finds mine, her voice soft and steady. “Aww, Summer, come on, honey. You’ve been carrying this by yourself for so long, but you’re not alone anymore.”
I shake my head, my throat tight. “That’s not just it, though,” I whisper.
“It’s Jacob. He’s in my head—messing with me, twisting everything until I don’t know what’s real anymore.
Last night…” My voice falters, shame rising like a tide.
“Last night, I wanted to have sex with him. I wanted him. But he’s the one who walked away. ”
Both girls exchange a look—wide-eyed—as if my confession has shifted something they thought they understood. I can see it written all over their faces—they’d assumed he was the kind of man who would have already taken what he wanted, the kind who never bothered with lines at all.
Constance tilts her head slightly, her voice quieter now. “Does he… does he know about Tyler?”
The question lands like a stone between us. She means the boy I gave my virginity to, the secret I buried years ago.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “No. I don’t think so. I don’t even know how he’d react if he did.” The words are small, but the truth is enormous.
Adelaide’s expression hardens, her usual softness sharpening with protectiveness. She leans forward, her voice dropping low like a warning.
“Summer, listen to me,” she says firmly. “Don’t let him know. Not about Tyler. Not by any means. If he doesn’t already, you keep it that way.” Her eyes lock on mine, urgency twisting in her expression. “You have no idea what he’d do with that kind of information.”
Constance lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, please. You really think he doesn’t already know? That man probably knows how many times you piss in a day.”
She exhales through her nose, fury simmering under her skin. “But seriously, Summer,” she adds, softer. “The offer’s always there—the hotel, a bed here. You know we’ve got you.”
I nod, the weight in my chest loosening just a fraction. For the first time in months, I don’t feel entirely alone.
We sit in silence for a while, letting the air breathe between us.
Constance breaks it first. “I’ve sworn off men again,” she announces, smirking. “Only relationship I need is with my coffee machine and my vibrator. They never argue, never cheat, and always know exactly how I like it.”
I smile—an actual smile.
Adelaide shrugs when I ask about her love life. “Nothing worth writing home about,” she mutters. “I lived with Grandma until the funeral, then moved here. Now this house is our little bachelorette sanctuary.”
And it is. Every wall hums with color—pastels, ember oranges, daring blues that shouldn’t work but somehow do. Fairy lights spill like constellations across the curtain rods. Vintage chairs sag under bright cushions. Handwritten quotes curl across the fridge like protective charms.
This was our dream once: the three of us under one roof, barefoot in the kitchen, music too loud, books scattered everywhere, whispering secrets into pillows as if forever was guaranteed.
“I still dream about that sometimes,” I whisper, the words trembling out before I can stop them. “Us. Living together.”
Neither of them answers right away. The silence is heavy. Aching.
And I know.
They dream it too.