The truth.
The image she had of me—the calm, controlled man—was gone. Replaced by what I really am.
A killer.
And there was no taking it back.
I wasn’t even afraid she’d go to the cops. That would have been easier. Better that than seeing disgust in her eyes, seeing myself reflected there as something monstrous.
I tried to run. Tried to leave before she woke up.
She didn’t let me.
She made me stay.
Then she talked.
She told me she didn’t judge me. Didn’t blame me. Didn’t see me as a murderer.
She said she was glad I told her.
I still can’t explain what that did to me.
I gave her the worst part of myself, and she took it without flinching. No interrogation. No accusations. Just quiet acceptance. A simple, “I won’t push you for details, but if you want to talk, I’m here.”
No one had ever given me that before, and coming from her…
I nearly broke right there. The relief hit so hard I could barely breathe.
And somehow, it made everything worse.
Because it left me with nowhere to hide from the truth.
I don’t deserve her.
Someone that kind. That steady. That good.
So, of course, I ran.
For her sake. The only way I could give her anything close to a normal life was to walk away completely—and stay gone.
So that’s what I did.
But telling Sierra was the hardest part. Nothing else will ever come close. Maybe that’s why it was so much easier the second time around.
Speaking of Sierra, I realize I have a Reiki session booked in with her at six today, and it’s coming up to six now. Good—I’ve been looking forward to this session all day.
But when I get to the Reiki treatment room, the room is dark and there’s no one there. Strange. I wait a few more minutes until five past the hour, reassuring myself that anyone can be late. It happens to the best of us.
But not Sierra. I honestly cannot remember her ever being late for anything during the whole time we’d been together.
Unsettled, I decide to check up her. I head to her room, and knock once before pushing the door open, expecting to find Sierra in bed, maybe even still asleep.
The bed is empty.
The sheets are twisted, tangled like they’ve been fought with, and there’s a note lying there, placed on top of the twisted sheets.
I unfold the note to reveal just a phone number.