15 Everleigh Wolves of Worry—Chance Peña
Everleigh
Wolves of Worry—Chance Pena
A crushing weight lands in the pit of my stomach.
Even here, my husband watches me from afar.
Search Ongoing for Missing London Exec. Police Appeal for Witnesses.
Every letter tears a fresh strip from my splintering sanity, orchestrating a collision between present and past. I picked up the newspaper on a whim, unprepared for the headline blazoned in damning letters.
The story tears into festering wounds that never stopped bleeding, opening up a Pandora’s box of memories. I shove the newspaper back onto the rack, then tear out of the small corner shop, needing to escape any prying eyes.
I’m a coward.
The worst kind.
London is one of the biggest cities in the world. Women go missing every single day. It’s a fact of life for the men assigned to our cases. In the capital’s vast population, one less body in the rat race will soon become old news. She’ll soon be forgotten.
The cycle continues.
On and on like it has for millennia.
Fierce pain drills across my temples, a blight of attacking memories attempting to shove forwards and overtake my sight. There’s little use in fighting the flashback—it comes unbidden and without remorse.
“Just tell me who she was! I want a name!”
“A name?” Christopher screams viciously. “You’re losing your mind!”
“I know everything. Your sick, twisted little secret. I found it all!”
Rain-slick cobblestones and thatched stone buildings form a blur all around me. Flashes of Christopher’s quickly bruising face and designer suit saturated in blood on our pantry floor flash across reality.
“I’ve given you everything, Everleigh. How dare you question me?”
“You. Killed. Her!”
“Crazy bitch! You’ve lost it!”
“And you’re going to prison!” I howl back.
Almost tripping on the kerb and muttering an apology to the local I accidentally shove into, my legs give out against the nearest building. An invisible noose has cinched around my neck, beckoning death ever closer.
Leaving my wedding band in the middle of our marital bed was a cowardly move. Beyond contemptible. But not as cowardly as fleeing that house with no intent to return to the real-life monster who denied it all.
A braver person would’ve disregarded his meaningless excuses and brought an end to the evil that festered within those million-pound walls. But Christopher didn’t create a brave woman, capable of free will.
He spent five years breaking me apart.
And now I know why.
My hands brace on my knees, stunted breathing worsened by the ache in my chest from the smoke inhalation. Fletcher shouldn’t have bothered rescuing me. Unlike his teammates, I deserved that fate. Flames are too kind for a weak, pathetic coward like me.
“You don’t know what you saw, Everleigh.”
“Stop trying to manipulate me!”
“I see what’s happening. It’s okay, we’ll get you the help you need to forget all this nonsense.”
“Let go of me . . .”
Someone knocks on the glass window at my back, but I’m too focused on the pit of despair that’s opening up beneath my feet. Invading memories shove me closer to the precipice of falling in without hope of rescue.
“You’re having a nervous breakdown, darling. I’m going to give you something to calm your nerves.”
“You will not drug me! Not now, not ever!”
“Shh. I only want to help you get some rest.”
In the end, it was simpler to take the pills Christopher watched me swallow, one by one. Even if it meant surrendering to sleep under his watchful eye, knowing that my discovery would be long gone by the time I roused.
So I surrendered. Let him think he’d won. Part of me actually doubted if I was losing my mind or not. It was an easier explanation than confronting the truth about the infamous Christopher Banks and his illicit out-of-hour activities that rendered him more suited to patient than psychiatrist.
“Eden? That you?”
Nausea holds me hostage as a door clanks open.
“Hey, Eden. Talk to me. What’s happening?”
Another voice joins; gravelly, female, full of sass.
“Jeez. Is she alright?”
“Go get some water.”
“Hey, you’re not my boss—”
“Go on, Piper! Now!”
Blinking past tears, I crane my neck to look up at Maverick’s bearded face. He’s braced in front of me, a hand resting on the shopfront I’ve inadvertently collapsed against.
“Mav?” I wheeze.
“Hi, mystery lady. You feeling okay?”
“Just a little dizzy. Sorry.”
“Let’s get out of the cold. Can you stand?”
“I-I . . .”
“It’s okay, take a couple breaths for me. Nice and deep.”
Dragging air past my clenched teeth takes several attempts. I feel like a fool falling apart in front of my coworker, but Maverick shows no signs of judgement, patiently watching my chest expand.
“Better?” he asks.
“Y-Yes.”
“Did something happen?”
“Just . . . n-nothing. I’m having a moment.”
“I’d say that’s understandable after recent events.” He sources a thin smile. “Or were you just missing my daily lattes and wonderful personality?”
“Hah.” I laugh dryly. “You got me.”
“So I thought.”
His familiar drawl offers some reassurance, allowing me to piece a semblance of calm together. In front of him, I can find my faux mask and plaster it back into place with fragile sticky tape. Disassociating from the headline and all its implications for my decision to run and hide.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “I’m good.”
“Excellent. Take my hand.”
“I can go—”
“Come inside, Eden. We don’t bite.”
Taking his large, tattooed paw, I let Maverick pull me to standing and steady my quivering bones. A tentative glance up reveals my choice of refuge—Silver Hollow Gallery. We’re outside an open shopfront.
Escaping inside the bright, lofty store gives me time to pull my disparate parts together. The gallery is airy, beautifully restored with teak flooring and fresh white walls that create a wide-open space perfect for displaying artwork.
Each canvas hangs on the wall in its own place, neatly labelled and lit with a spotlight. Exquisite watercolours offer snapshots of rural landscapes recreated in minute detail.
There’s a babbling brook, complete with a rowing boat and fiery sunset. Ancient, abandoned stately homes. Thatched cottages nestled beneath snow-capped mountains. Winding country roads, farm fields, and life spilling through stained-glass windows in old churches.
“Wow.” I hum in surprise.
“Nice, right?”
“This space is beautiful. And the work . . . incredible.”
“Elias sure is talented.”
“Your uncle?”
“Uh-huh,” he confirms.
“So what are you doing here?”
“I’m helping him out until Cass gets back on her feet,” Maverick explains. “He has a new collection launching and needed a hand prepping the venue.”
Releasing his hand, I walk towards a floor-to-ceiling watercolour that sinks its claws in my chest and stirs up anxiety. It’s a coastal landscape, cliffs hugging craggy rocks and white-tipped waves that erode the earth they beat against.
My hand hovers over each intricate brushstroke, immortalising the fervent passion of an artist chasing a dream. I’ve seen my fair share of fine art while clinging to Christopher’s arm, and this is some impressive talent.
“You like that one?” Maverick asks.
“It’s desolate. Incredible.”
“Elias’s stuff depresses me, personally.”
“Prefer to create your artwork on a plate?” I snort.
Behind me, he laughs. “I’m a chef, not a starving artist.”
“Some would argue they’re not too dissimilar.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Depends on the dish.”
“You’ve tasted my cooking,” he harrumphs.
“The pub sandwiches are excellent.”
“You tried to impress your girlfriend with a sandwich?” Footsteps descend the staircase to enter the room.
Watching the young woman approach, she’s undeniably pretty, in her early twenties. The wicked glint in her eyes betrays her roughened edges, full of rebellion not yet quashed by the realities of adulthood.
Thigh-high boots offer a peek of skin under a short denim skirt paired with an oversized sweater and leather jacket, adding to her no fucks given aura. The way she swings her hair and hips screams confidence.
“Eden is not my girlfriend,” Maverick quickly clarifies. “Don’t be a brat, Piper.”
“Wait. You have actual friends?” She pops a brow.
“Hilarious. Where’s her water?”
Pulling a bottle from her jacket pocket, she tosses it into his hands. “Here you go, big bro.”
Maverick offers the water to me. “Drink up. Ignore my sister being a pain in the backside. It’s her talent.”
“Oh, your sister.” I nod towards the newcomer. “Hi.”
“Piper.” She grins in return.
“Eden. Nice to meet you.”
“Piper’s home from university for study week and making my life a living hell instead of running rings around her lecturers,” Maverick grouches.
“You’re a student?”
She flicks invisible lint from her stylish sweater. “In Edinburgh.”
“Impressive.”
“Thanks. I’m studying for my degree in criminal psychology.”
“She’s gonna be the next Sherlock Holmes.” Maverick winks at his sister.
The frigid scowl he receives in return makes me laugh under my breath. Something tells me this little spitfire doesn’t much appreciate her brother’s joking. I bet she’s hellish to teach.
“You been in town long?” Piper twirls a lock of highlighted hair around her pinkie.
“A couple months,” I answer.
“Wait . . . You were the woman in the recent pub fire, right?”
“Pipes,” Maverick scolds.
“Sorry, sorry.” She winces at her own words.
“Don’t worry about it. That was me.”
“Are you okay now?”
Taking a swig of water allows me time to find a normal answer. Nothing comes to mind as that headline flashes before my eyes again. Somewhere out there, a missing woman is dreaming of home. I know the feeling—though for me, I longed to escape.
“I’m bearing up,” I force out.
“You heard about Andy’s release?” Maverick watches me closely.
It’s safer to nod, tongue tied.
“He wouldn’t dare step foot back in Hawkthorpe, guilty or not. You don’t have to worry about him trying anything.”
“Cassidy’s ex?” Piper exclaims. “He did it?”
“That’s the prevailing theory.”
“What the hell, Mav? You don’t keep me up to date with anything.”