Chapter 11 Sawyer #2
I held out my hand to help her up, already craving the contact before it happened. The moment her fingers closed around mine, my heart went absolutely feral. It was dainty, soft, warm, and fucking electric. Every nerve ending suddenly remembered what it meant to be alive.
For a moment, we just stood there. No words, just looking at each other. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was about to speak but forgot how. My thumb traced across her knuckles without permission.
She let go and wiped her hand on her jeans like nothing happened, as if she hadn't set my entire world tilting sideways.
“We got a deal, Miles?” I held it out again, my voice rougher than intended.
Not because I wanted to touch her again, and definitely not because I was already addicted to her pulse fluttering against my palm.
She hesitated for a heartbeat—long enough for me to wonder if she felt it too, this magnetic pull that made breathing feel more difficult.
Then, she slid her hand into mine, and we shook on it.
Something flickered in my chest—stupid, soft, and way too real for what this was supposed to be.
I wanted to memorize the weight of her hand in mine.
“We've got a deal,” she said, her voice a little breathless.
I reluctantly let go, my fingers trailing against hers longer than necessary, and moved to the couch, dropping down onto the worn cushions we probably shouldn't be sitting on. She followed, settling beside me.
Close, but not quite close enough. Never fucking close enough.
The inches between us felt like miles. I wanted to pull her into my lap and wrap her up as if it was normal, but that felt borderline insane. So, I leaned enough to nudge her knee with mine, savoring even that small contact, and inched closer so I could see.
She peered down at the journal and back up at me. The look in her eyes made my chest tight. “Do you want to read it aloud?”
“You go for it.”
What I really wanted was to watch her mouth form the words, to study the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks when she looked down.
She opened to the first page and started reading.
I almost left today.
I stood at the sink, staring at the road beyond the willow tree, thinking I could finally do it. Pack a bag, grab the cash I've hidden, take the car, and drive. The thought felt real this time, like I might actually have the courage.
Then, I heard the door and his voice, with that tight, sharp edge, like he knew what I'd been thinking.
I folded the dish towel. Sat back down. Pretended the thought never crossed my mind.
I stay because I have to. Because of the boy asleep down the hall, the one who carries the features of the man I wish had chosen me. The man who says he needs time, who whispers promises in the dark that might just be words to pass the time.
I tell myself it's temporary. That there will be a day when the pieces fall in my favor, when those whispered promises become real. But the longer I wait, the more I wonder if that day will ever come.
When Patrick looks at him…it's not the way a father should look at his child. It's like he's looking through him. Like he knows the truth I've kept buried.
And if he knows…
I won't let anything happen to him.
I’m trapped. I watch his hands, I measure my words, I keep my head down. I know the moment I falter, I’ll pay for it. Even in the silence, even when he’s gone, I can feel the weight of what’s coming. Every day is survival.
“So she had an affair,” Ellie whispered, peering over at me.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, sounds like it.”
“But she stayed.” Ellie flipped back a few pages, scanning with her fingertip. “Look at this.” She pointed at the page. “She mentions feeling trapped.”
“She was scared.”
Ellie's voice dropped, but there was an edge to it now. “You know what's classic? The way abusers isolate their victims right before they try to leave. She had cash hidden, had a plan. He probably knew it, but then he comes home mad, and, suddenly, she's staying. That's textbook intimidation.”
She looked up at me. “The way she wrote about him…”
I let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “That line about him looking through the kid…”
“Exactly. That's not normal parental behavior.” Ellie shifted, tucking her legs under her. “She says the boy wasn’t his. That would explain the sudden behavioral shift if he suspected it. The paranoia. She knew the truth could make things worse.”
“Like a kid finding a gun worse?”
“Yup. She says, the boy asleep down the hall, the one who carries the features of the man I wish had chosen me. Okay, so we have four players here—the kid, the husband, the wife, and this mystery person who is the real father.”
“Sounds like it.”
“What if he threatened the kid?” Ellie flipped back to the previous page. “What if that's why she stayed quiet—not just fear for herself, but knowing he'd take it out on the boy if she said anything?
I tilted my head and smirked. “You do love true crime, huh?”
Ellie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“I’m serious. There’s more to this, Sawyer.
What if someone else came to that house that night of the incident?
The real father? Or what if he knows what really happened?
Maybe she was too afraid to say anything.
Whoever the real dad is, I bet he knows something. ”
I probably should’ve told her to let it go, that it wasn’t our business, but she looked so damn alive sitting there, digging into this like it mattered.
Maybe that should’ve been my cue to be the responsible one.
Instead, I stayed quiet. If chasing this thing kept her here a little longer, I wasn’t about to get in the way.
I leaned back on the couch and stretched an arm behind her. “This is heavy shit, El.”
She glanced up at me, her expression soft but steady. “Oh, I know, but I love this stuff. It relaxes me, remember?” She glanced at the journal again, fingertips resting on the edge of the page. “She wrote this as some silent plea for help.”
“You're not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
My fingers brushed against hers as I lifted the journal from her lap. The leather binding was warm from where it had rested against her legs, and my thumb traced along her knuckle once again.
“Well, too bad.” I closed it slowly, still not moving my hand. “You shook on it. Deal's a deal. We wait till next time.”
She leaned forward. “You're seriously going to leave me hanging?”
“Absolutely. Builds character.”
“You're annoying.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Ellie laughed, soft and breathy, but it caught in her throat when our eyes met. Her gaze dropped to my mouth and stayed there while my breathing slowed to almost nothing. She leaned closer, her lips parting slightly, and I could feel the warmth of her breath. She bit her lower lip, and I nearly—
She pulled back.
“Next time then,” she whispered.
Yeah, next time.
I didn't believe in ghosts or cursed houses, didn't believe in chasing down old tragedies as if they owed us something.
But I believed in Ellie. So, if a dusty old journal kept her coming back here—kept her coming back to me?
Yeah. I'd read every word.