Chapter 4

The cut on the back of my hand throbbed with a dull pain.

This storm was unlike anything I had ever experienced. In an unfamiliar city, I needed the sound of a familiar voice just to keep myself grounded and sane.

I sat there, listening to Candace's frantic, rambling voice notes and her panicked breathing.

"I swear, I never did anything to betray you."

I felt utterly disgusted, yet painfully comforted by the familiarity of it. Before this, Candace had always been the perfect girlfriend. She was attentive, responding to every text, and able to soothe my every insecurity.

Paralyzed by primal fear in the middle of a raging storm, I had to admit that I still instinctively reached for the sense of security her voice offered.

I dragged myself through that horrific night listening to her recordings. As the gray sky slowly brightened into pale dawn, the storm's fury finally began to subside.

First responders braved the lingering wind and rain to evacuate the terrified guests, bringing us to the lobby of a sturdier hotel nearby that served as an emergency shelter.

I was drenched to the skin, my thin trench coat clinging to my body and my matted hair dripping over my forehead. A paramedic had hastily wrapped a gauze bandage around the cut on my hand, but blood was still oozing through the cloth.

As I sat staring blankly at a paper cup of warm water the front desk had given me, the hotel's revolving glass doors suddenly swung open.

Candace rushed inside, soaked through and without an umbrella. Anxiety was written all over her face, her eyes frantically sweeping through the crowded shelter.

The moment she spotted me sitting in the corner, she froze. "Parker! What happened to your hand?"

She rushed over and spoke anxiously. "I've been so worried about you."

Expressionless, I held my cup tightly and pulled away from her touch. Her hand hovered awkwardly in midair as surrounding evacuees threw curious glances our way.

She took a deep breath. "Why weren't you picking up your phone? Things aren't what you think at all."

She stooped down in front of me, trying to catch my eye. "The storm was terrifying, and the floor of Benedict's rental got flooded. As a... friend, I couldn't just sit by and watch him get washed away, could I?

"So, I picked him up and brought him home. I slept in the bedroom, and he slept on the couch. We didn't do anything, I swear. We've been together for three years. Don't you trust me at all?"

Looking at her seamless, righteous act, I felt nothing but absurdity. Even now, she was blaming me for a lack of trust.

"Didn't do anything?" I set down the paper cup, pulled out my phone with my uninjured hand, and tapped on the screen. "At three yesterday afternoon, you were downstairs playing the claw machine with him, claiming you were dealing with a work emergency.

"At ten last night, you recycled a three-month-old photo and lied to me that you were working late at the office. And at three in the morning, when the window blew open, the first person you scrambled to take care of was him."

On my screen were the photos I had taken of her and Benedict at the claw machine, along with side-by-side comparisons of the identical photos she had sent at different times.

Watching the color drain from her face, I let out a dry, bitter laugh.

"You wanted an easygoing, low-maintenance boyfriend to check the box, but you also wanted your first love close by to satisfy your nostalgia and regrets. You make me sick."

Her lips parted, but at that point, the usually eloquent, smooth-talking woman couldn't string together a coherent sentence. After a few agonizing seconds of silence, she suddenly stood up and grabbed my wrist.

"Don't make a scene here," she whispered. "Let's go home and talk this through."

"Let go of me. Who said anything about going with you?" I yanked my arm back, tearing open the cut on my hand again.

Just as we were locked in a standoff, a deep voice echoed from the lobby entrance.

"Candace? Why did you suddenly run off?"