"Do you have anything more recent for us to go off of?"

I glared at the police officer. He didn't look like a police officer. He was wearing jeans, a plaid flannel, and a backward baseball cap. But he was still a cop. Or, more specifically, a cop who had no fucking clue where Luke Hadaway was and also kept asking me stupid questions.

Resisting the urge to scoff, I said, "I haven't seen him in three years. How the hell would I have an up-to-date picture?"

The guy opened his mouth to reply, but Caroline cut in.

"That's all we have, officer," she said lightly, pacifying things. "Have there been any updates?"

Officer James answered Caroline, but I drifted away from the conversation as soon as I heard him say no.

No, there hadn't been any new updates. The police still had the gun with his prints and all the other fucking evidence he'd left scattered behind, but they didn't have him.

Pushing down the bile that had risen in my throat, I glanced at my dad's picture before the officer slid it into his pocket. Luke Hadaway had dark hair like mine, but he always wore his slicked back. And he had a sallow look about his face, with sunken eyes and cheeks. Mr. Hadaway was standing next to me in the picture, but we didn't look anything alike. The only thing that we had in common was our lack of facial hair, really.

We were in an empty soccer field after one of my games, and I was actually smiling. For once, I was smiling in a picture.

I wish I could fucking tear it up, but they needed it.

Dragging my eyes from the photo, I scanned the local diner we were at instead. It was the kind of place that had regulars who sat on the barstools at the front counter. A place where no one cared that the plates were chipped. I liked places like this. But that didn't mean I liked being here.

The chattering next to me stopped.

"Bren?"

I whipped my head back around.

"Sorry. Yeah?"

"Did you hear what he asked you?

I shook my head.

Officer James tilted his head. "Are you certain you don't want to consider any kind of protective—"

"No." I cut him off.

I might have witnessed the murder he'd committed, but I had no desire to hide from my dad. The opposite, really. Which is why the next words out of the officer's mouth had me sitting up straighter.

"Then what about a cooperative effort?"

"A cooperative effort?" I repeated.

"You mean you want to use Bren as bait," Caroline interjected bluntly.

I sat up even straighter. "Yes—"

"No."

Caroline earned a glare from me. She was quick to glower my way in return.

"Caroline," I growled beneath my breath. "You can't tell me—"

"I know I can't tell you what to do, but you should at least take a minute to think about this," she murmured back to me, lowering her voice from the forceful tone she'd used a minute ago.

I gritted my teeth but nodded, uninterested in having it out with her in the middle of a diner.

"Think about it," Officer James reiterated, and I glanced at him, studying his neat little mustache and beady green eyes. "Call me if you're interested, and we can go through it more together."

"I'll call you later," I promised, despite Caroline's glare boring into the side of my head.

With one more nod, Officer James slapped some money down on the table for the coffee we'd had before scooting out of our booth. I watched him go, listening to the jingle from the door fade into the chatter of the restaurant before I finally chanced a look at Car.

Her usually soft face was stern, eyes glittering.

"Oh, come on. Caroline, I can't sit around, potentially putting you, Madie, and god knows who else at risk. Let's draw him out. Why not?"

"Because you think he wants you dead. And I want you alive. I'm pretty sure Madie would agree with me, too." She pulled out her phone. "Maybe I should call her and see what she thinks about this new plan to get yourself kill—"

I snatched the phone from her hands.

"Fuck no. And it's not that I think he wants to kill me. It's just that I think that's how he'll try to end it when he realizes he's not gonna get his way. I've always..." I drifted off, unsure how to tell Caroline that I've always thought I would end up dead because I didn't care enough to live.

Until now.

I shook my head. "It's complicated, okay?"

"Well so is this decision. So think about it before you go off to do something rash. And call Madie." She grabbed her phone back. "Or I will."

Sending another glare her way, I muttered, "You wouldn't."

Caroline was unphased, shrugging and taking a sip of shitty coffee. "I called Beau, didn't I?"

"Jesus Christ, woman. Such a meddler."

One of her eyebrows arched so high, it became pointed. "And thanks to my meddling, what happened?"

I had begun to push myself out of the booth, but I paused at that.

Madeline. Los Angeles. The beach. Fucking falling in love.

Glancing back at her, I whispered, "You're right. Thank you for calling Beau."

She smiled at that, her soft Caroline expression returning. Urging us out the door, she didn't say another word on the subject. The wind whipped fiercely as we emerged onto the street, and I threw my hood up. But when Caroline turned toward the parking lot, my feet stuck to the concrete.

"Bren, are you coming?" Her voice sounded distant.

"I'm just gonna...stay out for a bit." I hadn't been planning on it, but I didn't want to go back to Caroline's yet.

"Bren..."

"Just gonna get a work-out in and shit before heading back," I assured her, checking over my shoulder at her worried expression.

Caroline had met me here earlier, coming straight from work. So she had her own ride, and eventually she left me, sliding into her Ford Explorer and driving away.

I also left, but I headed in the other direction.  I got my work-out in, pushing my body harder than I had in a long time. All I wanted was to feel something other than whatever this fucking shit was that kept twisting in my chest. But after showering off and changing back into my street clothes, I still didn't want to go back to Caroline's.

So I walked.

And I walked.

Until I ended up here. At St. Paul's Catholic Church. And something propelled me to push the massive wooden doors open and drop into the echoing past.

What was it about churches? It seemed like they were always just...open. They were almost always vacant, too. Vacant, but open.

I wandered through the familiar hallways. Not much had changed. The pews in the main chapel had still seen better days, and a muskiness overwhelmed me as I descended into the basement. Its checkerboard tiles were scuffed and scuffed well, and I found myself staring at the black and white squares.

"Bren?"

That voice. I knew that voice.

Lifting my head, I came face-to-face with a familiar wry smile and dark eyes. She pushed caramel-streaked ringlets out of her face as if still trying to see me properly. As if she didn't believe.

I couldn't believe it either.

"Collins? Collins Bryant?"

"That's me," she said breathlessly, breaking the tension and walking my way.

"You look..." I stopped myself. She had on a plain black crop top, and the hem hit right at her waist. Black pants were cinched just below it, and touches of gold jewelry sparkled on her wrist and neck. It was a different look than her grungy days of oversized band tees and faded jeans. She looked...older. But I supposed that made sense. I hadn't seen her in about a year.

I cleared my throat. "You look good."

That wry smile grew. "And you still look constipated."

Choking on a laugh, I asked. "What?"

She shrugged. "That little crease between your eyes, like you're constantly working far too hard on something. It's still there."

She crossed the room and started organizing a stack of pamphlets or something. I didn't know what the fuck to say to that. So I asked the question that was roaming in my head.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she shot back over her shoulder.

"I don't even fucking know. Nostalgia pulling at me, I guess."

"Nostalgia for grief groups and—" She cut off and cleared her throat. "I work here now. Run some groups, actually."

"Really?"

I mean, I shouldn't be surprised. Collins had been more involved in...everything. She was a year or two older than me, and she'd always taken our counseling more seriously. The first one to share her thoughts, the first to encourage others.

I'd been a terrible influence on her, sneaking us away into darkened hallways when I should have been listening to whatever shit topic that had been up for discussion that night.

It probably wasn't actually shit.

"Yeah, really," Collin said, sighing. "I didn't get out of town like you did."

I wanted to laugh.

"You on winter break or something?" she asked, flicking her brown gaze back to mine.

"Or something," I mumbled.

She raised a brow.

"Taking a semester off."

Collins gave a little shrug, not showing even an ounce of judgment when most people probably would have. Who takes a semester off after their very first one?

Instead, she said, "We're having a session in about twenty minutes." And then she began starting to move chairs around. I watched like an idiot for a second before joining in, helping her arrange them in a circle.

"You should stay," she added without looking up. I stared at her momentarily, but all I could see was that mass of curly hair. "For the group."

I shook my head, tossing the idea out of it. "Nah, I'm done with that shit."

She glanced up at that. "You don't look like you're done. Still got that thing between your eyes."

I hesitated.

"It's possible I still haven't found closure," I admitted. "But I'm working on it."

That got me a nod. "Well..think about it. Text me if you change your mind. I'll let you know when our next one is."

"Your number still the same?" I found myself asking even though I had no intentions of changing my mind.

"Yeah, it's still the same."

I left.

On my way out of the church, I passed a kid. Well, he wasn't any more of a kid than I was when I'd walked into this place for the first time. He was fifteen, maybe sixteen. Brown hair, brown eyes. And he wore anger like a badge. Like he was ready to tell the next person who looked at him to fuck off. Because why the hell not? The world had given him the finger, so he was giving it back.

I knew that kid. That kid was me.

Even now, he was me. Even when I wasn't a goddamn kid anymore. Because holy shit, I was mad. I was so fucking pissed.

It was hard not to be mad at the world when it produced people like Luke Hadaway. People like Quinton Reid. It was hard not to be mad at the world when it showed me what it felt like to be loved for the first time and then made me walk away from it. It was hard not to be mad at the world.

So even though I left the church, I thought about it. I thought about what Collins said.

And that's how I ended up going back to St. Paul's Catholic Church. Not really for sessions—because I wasn't about to sit in a room full of teenagers and put them at risk if my crazy ass dad followed me in one day.

But I went. Collins was usually there; she left me alone for the most part. It was nice to be around someone who understood, someone who didn't need you to explain your shit because they lived it. We didn't need to talk to have a conversation.

I went.

And I spend hours staring at that empty circle of chairs, picturing myself sitting in it.

What could I have learned if I had only listened?

And shit. Who should I listen to now?

🤍

Thank you for reading!
Hope everyone is staying safe and is well.
xoxo amelie