Chapter 15
Brian
I woke up in pieces.
Pain first. A dull throb across my ribs, sharpening into something vicious when I tried to move.
Then the smell of antiseptic, the scratch of hospital sheets, the steady beep of monitors marking time I couldn't remember losing.
The attack came back in fragments.
I'd stopped to gas up the truck on my way home. Broad daylight. Busy street. Nothing unusual.
I'd just finished pumping when three men stepped out of a black SUV that had pulled up behind me.
They didn't say anything at first. Just surrounded me. Calm, professional, like they'd done this a hundred times before. Fists and boots, targeting my ribs and kidneys. The soft places that hurt worst without leaving permanent damage.
Then a voice, close to my ear, while I lay on the concrete trying to remember how to breathe.
“Tell Dr. Rothwell next time, it'll be bad enough that she won't be able to put you back together.”
Someone must have found me. Called 911. The next thing I remembered was the ER—fluorescent lights, voices barking orders, and Ava's face swimming into focus above me.
Her hands on my chest, gentle despite the clinical efficiency.
Her voice, steady and professional, was giving instructions I couldn't quite follow.
But her eyes. Terrified.
I'd tried to tell her I was okay. Tried to make a joke about seeing the state of other guys. She hadn't laughed. Just kept working, kept examining, kept holding herself together with the kind of rigid control that meant she was falling apart inside.
Don't blame yourself, I'd told her. This isn't your fault.
She hadn't believed me. I'd seen it in her face.
And now—
I opened my eyes fully, blinking against the harsh hospital light. The room was quiet. Too quiet. The chair beside my bed was empty, the jacket Ava had been wearing last night gone.
No coffee cup on the side table. No book. No sign she'd been here at all.
"Ava?"
My voice came out rough, scraped raw. No answer.
I reached for the call button and pressed it. A minute later, a nurse appeared in the doorway—Jenny, I remembered. She'd been here last night.
"Mr. Torres. Good, you're awake. How's the pain?"
"Where's Dr. Rothwell?"
Jenny's expression flickered. Something careful sliding into place behind her eyes.
"She left a few hours ago. Said she had to take care of something important."
"Take care of what? Where did she go?"
"I'm not sure. She asked Dr. Chen to handle your discharge paperwork.
" Jenny moved to check my vitals, her movements brisk and professional.
"Your scans came back clear—no fractures, no internal bleeding.
Just deep bruising across your ribs. You'll be sore for a while, but nothing's broken.
" She offered a small smile. "You got lucky. "
I wasn't listening anymore.
Ava had left. In the middle of the night, while I was sleeping, she'd walked out of this room without waking me, without saying goodbye.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
"I need my phone."
Jenny handed it to me from the side table. I called Ava immediately. It rang once, twice, three times—then voicemail.
Hi, you've reached Dr. Ava Rothwell. Leave a message.
"Ava. Call me back. Please."
I hung up. Stared at the phone in my hand.
She wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me. Not after everything we'd been through, everything we'd built. Ava was many things—stubborn, fiercely independent, terrible at asking for help—but she wasn't the kind of person who disappeared without a word.
Unless she thought she had to.
I called Shane.
He answered on the second ring. "Brian? How are you feeling?"
"Something's happened." The words came out flat, hollow. "Ava's gone. She left the hospital in the middle of the night and she's not answering her phone."
"What do you mean, gone?"
"The nurse said she left hours ago. Said she had something important to take care of." My voice cracked. "Shane, I have a bad feeling about this."
A pause. "Okay. I'm going to run down to your apartment right now, see if she's there. Maybe she just went home to shower and get some sleep in a real bed."
"Yeah." I wanted to believe that. "Yeah, maybe."
"Sit tight. I'll call you back in five minutes."
The five minutes felt like five hours. I sat in that hospital bed, phone clutched in my hand, watching the seconds tick by on the clock above the door.
Every possible scenario ran through my head—Ava at home, making coffee, just not hearing her phone.
Ava in the shower. Ava asleep, exhausted from the night spent at my bedside.
My phone rang. Shane.
"She's not there." His voice was tight. "I knocked for five minutes. No answer. I can't hear Watson either."
I sat down on the edge of the bed without deciding to.
"I'm on my way to pick you up," Shane continued. "We'll figure this out."
Shane arrived twenty minutes later, helping me out of bed even though I insisted I could manage on my own.
"I've tried calling her three more times," he said. "Still not picking up."
"Something's wrong."
"Maybe she's on a call with her father. You know how those conversations go—could be hours." Shane's voice was calm and reasonable, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Let's get you home. Maybe she came back while I was on my way here."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe this was nothing—a misunderstanding, a miscommunication, Ava stepping out for coffee, or fresh air, or any of the hundred innocent explanations that didn't end with her gone.
But the fear in my gut said otherwise.
The drive to the apartment felt endless. I tried calling her three more times. Voicemail every time.
Shane helped me to the elevator, his arm steady around my shoulders. Every breath sent pain radiating through my bruised ribs, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was getting inside, seeing her face, and hearing her explain why she'd left without telling me.
The elevator ride felt interminable. Three floors had never taken so long.
I opened the door.
Silence.
Not the comfortable silence of an apartment waiting for someone to come home. This was different. Hollow. The kind of silence that happens when something has been taken.
"Ava?"
No answer. No Watson appearing to wind between my legs, demanding breakfast. No coffee cups in the sink.
I walked through the apartment like I was moving through water. Living room—her book was gone from the coffee table. Kitchen—the sink was empty, the dish towel folded too neatly. Bathroom—her toothbrush was missing. Her shampoo, too.
"Brian." Shane's voice was quiet. Careful.
I turned. He was standing in the living room, holding a piece of paper.
"It was on the coffee table."
I crossed the room. Took the note from his hands.
Ava's handwriting. Careful and precise, even now.
Brian,
I'm sorry. I love you too much to let them hurt you again.
Please don't look for me.
—A
I read it once. The words didn't connect. I read it again, slower, like maybe I'd missed something. A second page. A "just kidding." Anything.
Nine words. She'd ended us in nine words.
I love you too much to let them hurt you again.
She'd run.
To protect me. She'd left to protect me.
"Brian." Shane's hand on my shoulder. Steady. Grounding. "Talk to me."
"She thinks this is her fault." My voice didn't sound like mine. "She thinks if she leaves, the Langs will stop coming after us."
"That's not how this works."
"I know that. You know that." I stared at the note, at those nine words that had gutted me more thoroughly than any fist. "She doesn't."
Shane stayed while I called Detective Diaz.
She answered on the third ring. "Torres. How can I help you?"
"I can't find Ava." The words came out in a rush. "She left the hospital in the middle of the night. I've been trying to reach her for hours and she won't answer."
A pause. "Do you think she's been kidnapped?"
I opened my mouth to say yes—then stopped. Looked around the apartment. At the empty spaces where her things used to be. At the carefully folded dish towel. At the note, written in her own hand.
"No," I said slowly. "Her things are packed. She left a note. She... she went on her own."
Diaz was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. "I'm sorry, Torres. But if she left voluntarily, there's not much we can do."
"You don't understand. She's not thinking clearly. She's trying to protect us. Me. From the Langs.” I gripped the phone tighter. "They attacked me yesterday. Three guys, professional, sending a message."
"Wait." Diaz's tone sharpened. "You were attacked? When? Where?"
"Yesterday afternoon. Gas station on Northern Boulevard. I reported it to the officers who came to the hospital, but—"
"This changes things," she said finally. "I'll make sure this gets to the right people. In the meantime, Torres—be careful. If they came after you once, they'll try again."
"What about Ava?"
"If she left voluntarily, my hands are tied. But I'll keep my ears open, see if anything comes across my desk." Her voice softened. "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you wanted to hear."
"Thank you. For everything."
"Stay safe, Torres. We'll do what we can."
She hung up. I stood there in the empty apartment, phone in my hand, staring at nothing.
Shane was watching me. Waiting.
"Diaz can't help," I said. "Not officially. But she's taking the attack seriously. The threats."
"That's something."
"It's not enough."
Shane didn't argue. He just stood there, solid and present, the way he'd been standing beside me for over a decade.
"What do you need?" he asked.
I looked around the apartment. At the empty spaces. At the silence where Ava used to be.
"I need to find her."
The next few days blurred together.
Shane came every morning before his shift. Maya brought dinner in the evenings, sometimes with Zoe, who pretended to do homework while watching me with worried eyes.