wildtheory_tom: Look at his face—this wasn’t random. He’s done it before. You canseeit.
simone_beauty: Please rest if you can. Let others hold you now. You’ve carried enough
There are fans, old and new, who defend him with an eagerness that curdles my stomach.
As I set the phone down, my hand shakes, and I almost drop it. My first instinct is to call him, or to leave right now and rush to his house to make sure he’s okay.
But that’s not my place anymore.
The muffins I ate turn into a hard ball in my stomach, and my throat closes, the familiar wave of nausea lapping up from deep inside.
I try to focus on my punch list, but the words blur and stutter, and the sound of the rain outside grows louder, every gust shaking the trailer. There’s no air to breathe in here.
It’s not real.Auren knows what he’s doing. He always has. This wouldn’t be the first bruise to garner attention. But it doesn’t stop my knee-jerk reaction.
I brace both hands on the desktop, waiting for the world to steady.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grady
The rain churns around the cabin in sheets, flattening the trees beyond the porch and rattling the windows loud enough to blot out all other sound.
It’s the third day of this, and rain slaps the windows, wind rattles the frames, and the world outside these walls dissolves into gray. I pace between the stove and the table because sitting still only thickens the silence. I used to swear I could live alone forever with books, work, and no one needing anything from me. Three days of this storm prove how wrong I was.
The electric space heater ticks as it cycles, battling the constant, muggy chill in the air. I let it run for only half an hour at a stretch before flipping it off and pulling the wool blanket higher.
The mug of tea I made earlier has gone tepid on the counter, and a pulsing ache from my knee up into my hip discourages me from standing to turn on the kettle again.
Only the glow of my laptop breaks the monotony, the screen filled with Jared’s social feeds. I’ve spent the better part of two days scrubbing his name from the cesspool of gossip forums, flagging fake accounts, and rebuilding what’s left of his reputation.
It’s grueling, mind-numbing work, but I find a certain satisfaction in sniping the trolls one by one with a well-placed fact or a polite correction that leaves them floundering. Most lose interest once their narrative collapses under evidence.
But one account,HarborWatcher23, keeps coming back. Same clipped video. Same poisonous phrasing:You can see it in his eyes. He wanted to attack that Omega.
The words repeat in every post I come across. I’ve reported them half a dozen times, but they slip past filters, and their persistence stirs anger within me to stop them.
It’s not only the lies. It’s how they want to keep this incorrect narrative alive about Jared beingdangerous,whichputsJared in danger.
I reach for my mug and grimace when I get a mouthful of dregs. No way around it now.
As I reach for my cane, a bang comes from the door.
My heart skips a beat before reason returns. Nobody would be out in this weather unless they had to be, and no one has reason to come out to Kyle’s cabin.
But then the noise comes again, three distinct raps on the door.
Cane in hand, I limp across the room. The pane in the door runs with water, distorting the shape beyond into unrecognizable features.
I crack the door, and the storm roars in. Emily stands on the front step, rain slicker clinging to her shoulders and water running in rivulets down her jaw and into her collar. Her silver hair escapes in strands, stuck to her cheek and brow.
“Thought you might be lonely cooped up in here.” She lifts a quilted thermal bag and a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread. “Figured you haven’t been eating anything good, since I heard Kyle hasn’t had luck fishing.”
I blink once, thrown by her arrival, before I shake myself into motion. “You’re soaked. Come inside.”
She steps over the threshold, pushing back herhood to reveal a pallid complexion with bruised circles beneath her eyes. Her posture remains upright, though, bringing with her a blend of clover, rain, and wet wool.
As I close the door, she sets the thermal bag on the counter and peels her slicker open with her back to me. The movement drops a fresh spray of water onto the floor, and her boots leave muddy half-moons on the mat.