Chapter 5

CLAIRE

I'm finally healed enough for discharge, though the scars on my face are anything but. And the worst pain didn’t come from the crash; it came from the call.

My manager, Steven, had the audacity to call me. He didn't ask how my recovery was going or when I might be cleared for travel. He just offered a sweet tone and a professional lie.

"We love you, Claire, you know that. The agency thinks it's best you take enough time to recover."

And he stressed the 'enough time' a little too much.

More like a deadline disguised as concern. They are already running the math: every day I spend recovering is a day I spend becoming a forgotten story in the industry. The longer I take, the more "enough" that time becomes for them to find my faster, better, unbandaged replacement.

Thinking about it makes me want to hit my head on the wall, to swap this emotional agony for a physical one I can actually fight.

I called Cassie to take me home. To HER home. Parents’ home? Not an option. I'm going to spend two weeks listening to my mother mourn the loss of a 'perfect fiancé' or pretend the bandage on my head was just a fashion accessory.

Cassie, my older sister, is all steel and no sentiment. She doesn't offer comfort; she offers strategy.

"Hospital exit, your home. If Levi calls, don't engage him. Don't tell him where we’re going. In fact, pretend you don't know about the accident." That was all I said.

Cassie arrived in five minutes flat, dressed in a black suit. No questions. No drama. That was why I loved her. She knew that sometimes, the only way to get a clean break was to set fire to the bridge.

Now I'm in the front seat of her car, eating spaghetti. One she ordered for herself, but I happened to know the right spot in her car to find whatever I'm looking for.

“So… what are you going to wear in my place?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the wheel.

I shrug. “Your clothes, of course.”

“Even my underwear?” she raises a brow.

“I'll use your debit card.”

She rolls her eyes. “Wouldn't it be better if you let me drive you back to Levi's place to get your things—”

“Cassie.” I stop her right there. “I'm eating. Table manners are—”

“Come on, Claire, we both know you care less about table manners.” She cuts me off, sighing. “What did he do? I thought he was perfect.”

“He was until I found out he's anything but,” I say, then explain to her everything I could piece together from the conversation with Levi and that sly woman, Sam, which seems scarier as I recount her exact words to Cassie.

“The idea of walking back into that house is like volunteering to be the bait in a psychological experiment. I’m done with that house. I’m done with him… for now…” My voice drops as my mind flashes back to the stranger.

I haven't been able to get him out of my head. It's like he's stuck in there, taunting me. And I don't know why my heart races each time I re-imagine his face and the possessive way he trapped me with his words.

He was in my space for maybe five minutes, but has sealed himself into my mind like a brand.

“...But that’s only half of it,” I continue, forcing my focus back to Cassie. “The real problem is the ghost who showed up.”

Cassie snorts. “What ghost?”

“A strange man. He calls himself Zeke...”

Cassie's eyes snap to me instantly.

I continue anyway. “He’s the one who pulled me out of the wreck. And he thinks I have amnesia about an accident from five years ago? Like, that's the least believable plot twist I've ever encountered. Amnesia? Seriously?” I snort, finding this whole scenario both ridiculous and terrifyingly disturbing.

“Why wouldn't I remember? Like you would have been teasing me nonstop about it... you never let me forget anything…”

I stop myself, noticing how quiet Cassie suddenly is. Her hands are locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white. She isn’t looking at the road or at me. She's staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. That signature steel face is back, but it's brittle this time. It’s the face she'll make when she's serious. And when Cassie gets serious, then it's serious.

“Cassie?”

She doesn't respond immediately, pulling the car to the curb. “One sec, my phone's ringing.”

She presses the button on her dashboard, the one that answers the call through the car's Bluetooth system, but doesn't put it on speaker. I watch her face, rigid and focused as she listens. I can't hear the caller's voice, only her flat responses:

“Yes… yes, I understand… I’m with her now… I know… I’ll… I'll handle it.”

I just stare, confused and curious.

She hangs up, and the silence returns. She doesn't look at me; she stares through the windshield, ignoring me.

What the fuck is up with her? I cover my food and shove the half-eaten container of spaghetti aside.

“Cassie. What the hell was that?” I ask.

She can't even look at me.

"We are going to stop. Right now. You are going to tell me who was on that phone and what you are 'handling.'"

She finally turns, and I can practically see “I'm sorry” written all over her face.

She starts the car, but instead of merging back into the flow of traffic toward her apartment complex, she pulls back and makes a sharp U-turn, going in the opposite direction from where we were supposed to be heading.

My heart doesn't race; it goes cold. The feeling is worse than the sight of the red truck—it was the realization that my own safety net was compromised.

“Why are you turning, Cassie? Where are we going, Cassie?"

"Change of plans," she clips out, accelerating. "It's better this way. I'm sorry, Claire… I wish—"

"Bullshit," I snap, leaning forward. My injuries are screaming, but the shock of betrayal is louder. "I know this city, and I know your escape routes. Northwood leads to the estates. Whose estate, Cassie? Levi's? Did he send you a nice little payment to deliver me back to his 'protection'?"

She slams her hand down on the gearshift, but she doesn't slow. "Don't be ridiculous. I am protecting you. You are exhausted, Claire. You are not thinking straight."

"I am thinking perfectly straight!" I yell. "You looked terrified when I mentioned Zeke! You know something about five years ago, and you are trying to hide it by driving me to some hole where I can't ask questions! Pull over! Now!"

Cassie doesn't respond with words. She pushes the car even faster, leaving no doubt that she is prioritizing whatever lies at the Northwood exit over my direct command. Now I'm being transported.

Great. Just great.

And why did I forget she has my mother's blood running through her veins?

My family is like a curse infecting everything and everyone in my life; now it's infecting the one person I care about the most. And she used to care about me. So what the hell is happening?