Chapter 17
Stephanie
I'd moved the last of my things from the guest cabin later that afternoon, carrying over the few clothes I'd accumulated and the notebook of songs that never left my side.
It felt natural, this final shift from guest to.
..whatever I was now. Liam's girlfriend?
His partner? The woman who shared his bed and his life and his morning coffee?
"This is where you belong anyway," he'd said, watching me hang my single dress in his closet next to his uniform. "Should've moved you in weeks ago."
Now, with him gone to find that missing little girl, the house felt too quiet but not empty. It felt like ours. Like home.
I spent the afternoon cleaning—not because it needed it, but because domestic tasks had become soothing. There was something healing about making a bed with someone else's sheets, about washing dishes from a shared meal, about the simple act of belonging somewhere.
The kitchen window was open, letting in the warm afternoon breeze that carried the scent of hay and horses. I hummed while I worked, one of the new songs that had been building in my chest, about roots and wings and finding where you're meant to land.
My body still hummed from the morning, from Liam's hands and mouth and the way he'd pressed me against the barn wall.
The memory made me grin as I dried the last plate.
We were like teenagers, unable to keep our hands off each other, but it was more than just physical.
It was the joy of being able to touch, to want, to take without fear.
Evening came soft and golden, the sun slanting through the windows and painting everything amber. I made myself tea—Louisa's special blend that she swore cured everything from headaches to heartbreak—and settled on the couch with my notebook.
The new song was almost finished, just needed a bridge to tie it together. Something about coming home to yourself, about—
A floorboard creaked on the porch.
I smiled, setting down the notebook. "That was fast," I called out, assuming Liam had wrapped up the case quickly. Or maybe it was Ivy, who'd mentioned stopping by. "Did you find the little girl?"
No answer.
"Lee?" I stood, heading toward the front door. "Ivy?"
The cold hit me first—that primal chill that starts at the base of your spine and spreads like ice water through your veins. The same feeling I'd had that night in LA, right before—
I turned.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the porch light, and for a moment, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. It couldn't be him. He was in LA. He didn't know where I was. This wasn't possible.
But it was him. The same hungry eyes, the same thin frame vibrating with manic energy, the same face I'd seen in my nightmares for months.
"Hello, Stevie.” The voice slid out of the dark—soft, worshipful, cracked around the edges like broken glass.
For one disorienting second, my brain tried to tell me it was a dream.
Then I smelled him.
A sour, chemical rot. Sweat that had dried and soured again. The sharp bite of unwashed clothes and old cologne layered thick, like he’d tried and failed to cover the smell of obsession and decay.
Every instinct in me screamed run, and I tried—I got maybe three steps.
A fist tangled in my hair and yanked me backward so violently my vision went white. I screamed. Loud and long, hoping to God that someone would hear me and come running.
“Shut up!” He slammed me into the wall. My nose crunched against the plaster. Pain exploded through my skull, blood filled my mouth, warm and metallic. It dripped onto the floor, staining the hardwood Liam was so proud of.
A broken sob left me. “Somebody help me!” I screeched, voice cracking with desperation. He slammed me into the wall again, holding me there with his weight.
"You left me," he hissed, his breath hitting my ear in hot, uneven puffs that smelled like spoiled coffee and mint gum chewed hours ago. He pressed up against my back, his chest damp through his shirt, skin clammy like fevered wax.
"I had to chase you," he whispered, voice trembling with devotion and rage. "You made me chase you across the whole damn country. But I did it. Nothing can keep us apart, Stevie. Nothing. We were meant to be. Can’t you see?”
I tried to scream again. His hand slapped over my mouth, and the taste of him—sweat and grime and something foully sweet like rotting fruit—hit my tongue. I gagged against his palm.
"Do you know how long I searched?" His fingers dug into my cheeks, forcing my jaw shut. "How much I learned about you? About everyone in your life? About him?”
I only cried harder at the mention of Liam. He hadn’t even been gone for a day, and everything was falling apart. I should’ve listened. Should’ve let him pass the case to someone else. But I thought I was safe here, safe in this bubble we’d created together.
He pressed closer. His body felt wrong—too hot, too damp, trembling with an energy that wasn’t adrenaline but obsession. His skin was slick, not from work or heat, but from nerves, from mania, from not bathing enough to care.
"I saw you," he whispered. A fevered smile twitched across his pale, hollow face—the skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, like he’d stopped eating while he followed me.
That smile made my stomach flip.
"In the barn," he breathed. "I saw everything."
My heart stopped. My blood turned to ice.
His pupils were blown, swallowing almost all the color, eyes glassy with lack of sleep and a kind of hunger that made my knees buckle.
"I know about him," he whispered, voice cracking. "Liam Walker. The cowboy. The hero."
He said Liam’s name like a curse.
"I’ve seen every interview, every picture of you looking at him when you thought no one noticed." His grip tightened. "He thinks he can have you. He thinks he can keep you.”
“But you can’t keep something that’s already been claimed, Stevie. You understand. You know what’s between us.”
He leaned in, breath sour and humid against my cheek. It made my stomach revolt. "He doesn’t know you like I do." His smile stretched too wide, unhinged. "He doesn’t understand the connection. He doesn’t know you were singing to me. For me."
His face hovered inches from mine, his skin slick and sallow, pores clogged, a sheen of sweat glistening like oil across his forehead. "You’re mine, Stevie.” His voice was reverent. Broken. Certain.
"You’ve always been mine."
I didn’t freeze. I exploded.
The second his fingers loosened in my hair, I twisted and launched myself at him—claws out, teeth bared, every instinct screaming survive. I raked my nails across his face, felt skin split beneath them, hot blood coating my fingertips.
He shrieked—a high, shocked sound—but didn’t let go.
I jerked my head backward, smashing the back of my skull into his nose. The crack was wet and awful. Blood gushed instantly, hot and thick, running over his lips and dripping on my shoulder.
“You little bitch!” he snarled, voice garbled through the nosebleed.
I tried to bolt while he clutched his face, and managed to fling open the door before he grabbed a fistful of my shirt and yanked hard enough that the fabric tore at the seams. I stumbled, caught myself on the edge of a table. I snatched up the lamp sitting there and swung.
The lamp crashed against his shoulder, the bulb exploding in a burst of sparks and glass. He screamed, swiped at his eyes, but he was still too strong, too fueled by whatever mania was eating him alive.
I charged again, aiming for his throat this time, but he blocked, twisting, and drove a fist into my ribs so hard the world went silent around the pain.
Something cracked. Fire shot through my side. My knees buckled, breath ripped from my lungs.
I still tried to fight.
I threw my whole body at him in a desperate shove, but he caught me by the hair again and slammed me into the wall. Plaster cracked. My blood sprayed like splattered paint.
“Stop fighting me!” he roared, spittle and blood flying. His face was a mask—his own nose pouring blood, my scratches running like red rivers down his cheeks, eyes wild and fever-glassy.
“You’ll have to fucking kill me!” I screamed.
He punched me again—lower this time, right over the ribs he’d already cracked. My vision went white-hot and distant, like I was watching myself from underwater.
“You’re ruining everything!” he screamed, the words vibrating my already aching head.
He fumbled in his jacket with a trembling hand and pulled out duct tape—the same silver industrial roll from before. My stomach dropped.
“No,” I sobbed, scrambling away from him. He yanked me back by my hair again, trapping me against his body. “No! Let me go!”
I tried to scream more, but the tape hit my mouth. He wrapped it once. Twice. A third time, tighter, tangling in my hair, yanking strands out at the roots.
Any noise I made became a muffled, shaking sob.
He wrenched my arms behind me, forcing them so high up my back my shoulders screamed. He wrapped the tape round and round until my fingers went numb.
I kicked backward, heel connecting with his shin hard enough to make him grunt, but he slammed me to the floor. The air punched out of me. A chair toppled, clattering across the hardwood. One of Maggie’s framed photos shattered, glass skittering under my knees.
Still, I fought—kicking, twisting, rolling, trying to throw my weight, anything.
“Stop!” He punched my ribs again. Pain lanced through me, white and blinding. My vision swam. “Everything would be easier if you’d just stop!”
He dragged me across the floor, my heels digging into the wood, trying to catch on to anything. My blood smeared with each pull—on the rug, the wall, the overturned chair legs.
“I had it all planned,” he ranted breathlessly, like a sermon, like a prophecy. “The house. The ceremony. Our vows. Our life together. But you”—he jerked my body so hard my head snapped back—“you had to run. You had to make me hunt you down and find you.”
“But you’ve upset me now, Stevie. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’ve left me no choice. When you do something bad, you have to be punished.”
“Fuck you!” The words came out muffled from the duct tape.
He lunged for me then, but I bucked and twisted again, even as my chest screamed and my arms burned. My breath came in shallow, panicked bursts against the suffocating tape.
I fought like a feral thing.
But he was stronger.
And the room was coming apart around us.
We were at the door now. I made one last desperate attempt, throwing my weight backward, but he was stronger than his thin frame suggested, or maybe obsession gave him strength. He hauled me across the yard, my bare feet scraping on gravel, tearing skin.
His car was parked behind the barn—a dark sedan, anonymous, forgettable. The trunk was already open, waiting.
"Just a little ride," he said, almost gentle now. "Then we'll be together forever. Like we're meant to be."
He shoved me in, and I hit my head on something hard—a tire iron, maybe. The world sparked and swam. The last thing I saw was his face, smiling down at me with terrible affection.
"Don't worry, Stevie. I'll take good care of you. Forever and ever."
The trunk slammed, and the world went black.