Chapter 17
Calla
The drive home is almost silent, the low buzz of the radio blending with the soft patter of December rain on the windshield. My fingers grip the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather. I tell myself it’s because of the slick roads. But I know better.
I spent the entire day thinking about Tyler.
On Christmas—surrounded by Chase and Haiyden, invited into their space, their lives—and all I could think about was him. Chase didn’t seem to mind. He was just happy to have someone there to fill the silence.
But Haiyden… he knew.
He didn’t have to say much. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he watched me. A quiet reminder that I wasn’t hiding anything from him. That I never could.
I knew it would be hard, but not like this.
Not with Tyler still crawling through my thoughts, picking apart the edges of my sanity.
The harder I try to quiet my mind, the louder it gets. There’s something off about Tyler—something I can’t shake.
It’s not just the way he stood over me, forcing me to look up when every instinct told me not to. Not just the way his tone sharpened when I asked simple questions, like I was pushing against some kind of invisible boundary I didn’t even know existed.
It’s deeper than that.
It was the way he lashed out, like I’d hit a Jules-shaped nerve I wasn’t supposed to touch. Like my words scraped too close to something buried.
Something he doesn’t want me anywhere near.
And then there was his house. The little things.
Jules’s scarf hanging by the door, like she’d just stepped out for a minute.
Her favorite travel mug on the counter—the one with the crack in the side that she always swore didn’t leak.
A cookbook she loved, left open to a stained page she’d used a dozen times.
She made that pasta for every fight, every heartbreak. Said carbs were better for closure. I used to roll my eyes, but now I’d kill for one more bowl of overcooked penne.
And her shoes. By the door.
It’s been two months. Two months.
Why does he still have so much of her stuff? Is it grief? A desperate attempt to hold on? Or is it something else—something worse?
Guilt, maybe.
Evidence.
I pull into my apartment complex as the rain starts coming down harder, beating against the windshield in relentless sheets .
I should feel grateful for the warm winter. Grateful this isn’t a snowstorm. That I didn’t spend the night stuck at Chase and Haiyden’s.
But lately, I can’t bring myself to be grateful for anything.
When I slam the car door shut, I don’t move.
I just stand there, looking up at the sky, eyes fluttering closed as the rain pours down.
I stretch my arms wide, letting the freezing droplets sting my face.
A slow, shuddering breath escapes me as water seeps into my clothes, as the fabric clings to my skin.
My hair sticks to my cheeks, tangling with the tears that finally spill over.
I let myself feel it, just for a second.
The freedom in my emptiness.
It’s small. Fleeting.
I turn toward the door and head inside, frustration and sadness simmering beneath my skin.
My keys hit the counter.
I peel off my soaking jacket and let it fall to the floor. The chill clings to me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. The ache in my chest stays, too. A dull, unyielding pressure.
When I make it to my room, I strip off my wet clothes without thinking, letting them fall into a heap on the floor. The cold air hits my skin, sharp and bracing, but I ignore it.
I pull on an oversized sweatshirt and a dry pair of underwear, hands moving on autopilot.
My body feels like it’s made of lead, and every step to my bed feels like a battle. I collapse onto the mattress, sheets freezing against my skin, and reach for my phone without much thought, scrolling absently through old pictures of me and Jules.
She made a playlist once, called The Happy Hour Setlist for our weekend mornings. It was full of songs I’d dance to in the kitchen, hair still wet from a shower, socks sliding across the tile. She said I glowed when I was in motion.
I wonder what she’d say now, seeing me like this.
“I’m sorry, Jules,” I whisper. The words scrape out of my throat, rough and broken. “I’m so sorry.”
Photo after photo slides by—beach days, coffee dates, those ridiculous late-night selfies we used to take when we were drunk and tired, laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.
I try to listen for her laugh, but it’s fading. Like I can’t quite grasp the sound of it anymore. Maybe that’s the worst part of grief.
The forgetting.
And then I see it. The silver necklace with the small, delicate heart pendant. The one she never took off.
The one I didn’t see at Tyler’s.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was tucked in a drawer, taken off, left behind for once in her life.
But I know better.
He has it. Hidden somewhere. Kept it—just like everything else.
The realization sinks its claws into me. I didn’t see it.
I think back, scrambling to put the pieces together. The last time she came over, crying over a fight with him, was she wearing it? The memory is hazy, blurred by time and everything that’s happened since.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture her. But the harder I try, the more the details slip through my fingers.
My hands tremble as I pull up my browser and type: What does it mean when someone keeps things that belonged to someone who was murdered?
The results load instantly—a mess of clickbait headlines and cold case murders I’ve never heard of. Useless. I keep scrolling until one headline catches my eye. It’s a list. My pulse skitters as I skim it, stopping at one sentence:
Keeps belongings from victims as a way to hold onto control or maintain connection.
The words knock the air from my lungs. The room tilts as my mind fixates on the image of Jules’s things scattered around Tyler’s house. The scarf. The mug. The shoes by the door, like she might walk in at any moment.
But not the necklace. Not the one thing she never took off.
No, no, no.
I press my hands to my temples, like I can physically stop the spiral.
“This is insane,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I’m losing it.”
I drop my hands and stare up at the ceiling, heart pounding. My thoughts race too fast to catch.
But the feeling in my gut won’t let go. No matter how hard I try to push it down, it stays.
He’s keeping her things. Too many things.
Part of me knows I’m spiraling—that grief and paranoia are a dangerous mix. But another part, deeper and louder, more insistent, is convinced I’m onto something.
Jules is gone, but the truth is still out there. What if I’m the only one willing to look for it?
Maybe it takes a little delusion to find the answers.
Maybe that’s what it’ll take to bring her back. If not in body, then in truth .
I sit up suddenly, the room around me fading into the background.
An idea takes root. It grows fast, wild, impossible to ignore. I won’t break into his house. I’m not that far gone. But what’s the harm in looking?
Just one more visit. A quick drive-by. A glance through the windows.
If I time it right, no one will ever know.
My mind latches onto the idea, turning it over, shaping it into something solid. If I see something—something real, something undeniable—I’ll know I’m not imagining this.
I’ll have proof. A reason for this terrible feeling in my chest that won’t let me sleep.
I drag a hand through my damp hair, gripping at the roots.
Jules never gave up on me. She was always there when I needed her.
It’s only right I do the same for her.