Chapter 23 Sawyer
TWENTY-THREE
Sawyer
We spent the day after Christmas doing absolutely nothing. No plans, just the two of us in my house, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by snack wrappers, taking turns forcing terrible movie picks on each other.
There wasn’t anyone around to pretend for, but Ellie curled into my side all day.
After movie number four, she stole the last of the popcorn and then had the audacity to deny it to my face.
I let her, obviously. She smiled every time I fake-glared at her, and I wasn’t about to trade that for popcorn.
Around four in the evening, she grew restless beside me.
Not dramatically, but enough that I knew she was getting antsy.
I knew exactly what she was waiting for.
A part of me was stalling. I wanted to spend time with her, and I didn’t want to run off the day after Christmas chasing some maybe-lead to some maybe-Lauren.
I had told Ellie we should wait until later in the day—not just for logistics, but because if it was the right Lauren, she deserved at least a scrap of holiday peace. But I knew Ellie had been waiting all day for this.
“You ready to go?” I asked.
She nodded, brushing popcorn crumbs off her hoodie. I grabbed the keys to my grandpa’s old pickup—not my usual ride, but it felt right for the occasion.
Ellie climbed into the passenger seat. The sky had gone pale and cloudy, with leftover snow softening the world around us. She pulled her sleeves over her hands, and I pretended not to notice how adorable she was.
We didn’t talk much on the drive. She stared out the window, her fingers twitching against her thigh like they wanted something to hold on to. I kept one hand on the wheel and let the other rest near the gearshift—close enough that if she reached out, I could be there in a second.
It took about twenty minutes to reach the edge of town, where the paved roads got rougher.
The address led us to a small neighborhood tucked behind a run-down gas station.
Rows of manufactured homes lined the narrow road, most with patchy lawns or broken fences, a few decorated with old holiday lights.
The home we were looking for was at the very end, with faded yellow siding and a porch light barely hanging on. There was one sad folding chair out front, next to a recycling bin that had clearly lost a fight with the wind and never recovered.
“This is it,” I said as I parked a few houses down.
Ellie squinted at the home. “Do normal people do this? Just casually show up at some stranger’s house after FBI-level cyberstalking them to ask if they had journaled their trauma in their last home?”
“Definitely not, but we’re not exactly normal.”
Ellie chuckled and climbed out of the truck. Gravel crunched under our feet as we walked up. She bumped my shoulder like this was some kind of field trip and not a potential felony in progress.
“If someone comes out with a shotgun, you’re taking the hit,” she said.
“As your emotionally codependent partner in crime, I accept this.”
The porch steps creaked as we walked up. Ellie looked at me with her brows raised, trying very hard not to laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Deeply.”
She gestured grandly toward the door. “After you, brave sir.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know. You look less serial killer-y.”
“That’s a lie.”
She rolled her eyes but knocked anyway, lightly at first. Then again, louder.
Nothing.
I leaned in, listening. “Either she’s not home, or this place is abandoned.”
She stepped back, scanning the windows like she had X-ray vision.
“Hey,” I said gently, nudging her hand with mine. “If no one’s here, we’ll come back.”
“I just… I thought maybe this would be it.”
“It still could be,” I said. “Just not tonight.”
She nodded, but the spark was dimmer.
“C’mon. Let’s get you back to the safety of my couch.”
Then—thump.
We froze.
“Did you hear that?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I heard something.”
“A ghost?”
“A cat with anger issues?”
“A killer clown organizing their bookshelf?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but she was already turning the doorknob. Unlocked. It creaked open.
I stared at her. “Ellie.”
“Yes?”
“You’re about to break and enter.”
She shrugged. “Technically just enter.”
“That’s not better.”
“Come on. Maybe there’s a clue, a picture, a clue in a picture. I don’t know. I’ve seen enough crime dramas for this to be a logical step.”
With a deeply concerning amount of confidence, she slipped inside.
I hesitated for exactly three seconds, sighed, and muttered, “You’re actually insane. This is highly illegal.”
But I followed her anyway. I was starting to realize something stupid and heart-wrenchingly obvious.
I would follow her anywhere.
She grinned over her shoulder. “Live a little.”