Page 51

Moments later, Truck came into view, his broad frame filling the doorway. Relief was written across his face as his eyes met hers.

“Truck?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped inside, his expression softening as he came closer. “Yeah, it’s me. How’re you holding up?”

“Hemlock, Truck?”

“Hemlock’s gonna be fine,” Truck said, his voice thick with relief as he stood in the doorway. “We got word the surgery was a success. He’ll be heading to recovery soon.”

The weight he’d been carrying finally broke free, and tears spilled down his face unchecked. He swiped at them with the back of his hand, cursing under his breath. “Damn, I was scared to death,” he admitted, his voice cracking as he leaned heavily against the doorjamb, his legs threatening to give out.

Charlie froze for a moment, the words sinking in, then a wave of emotion overtook her. Tears flowed freely as she cried and laughed all at once, a chaotic mix of happiness and relief. The tension that had gripped her chest all night unraveled, leaving her gasping for breath in between her sobs and shaky laughter.

She didn’t care about the curious faces glancing in through the small window in the door or the passing nurses who slowed to look inside. Let them stare. All that mattered was Hemlock—alive and on the mend.

Truck finally pushed off the door jamb, stepping toward her. His eyes, red and watery, met hers, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. No words were needed; the relief, thegratitude, and the shared fear hung heavy in the air between them.

Without thinking, Charlie reached for his hand, and he took it, their grip solid and grounding. They stayed like that, holding onto each other in the quiet room, the outside world fading away for a while.

Early morning light filtered through the hospital’s windows, casting faint golden streaks across the floor as Charlie walked down the empty corridor. The soft hum of the hospital came alive around her—distant voices, the rhythmic beeping of machines, and the faint rustle of nurses moving from room to room. She kept focus on the numbers mounted above each door, her breath shallow as she searched forRoom 402.

She needed closure. And there was only one person who could give her that: Crispen Allen.

Ashley’s rampage had left its mark. Crispen had sustained serious injuries before she tied him up and shoved him into a coat closet. Despite the trauma, the doctors had assured her he’d make a full recovery. But physical wounds were one thing; the rest of it—Charlie’s unanswered questions—was another.

Finally, she reached the room just past the nurse’s station. The door was slightly ajar. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped inside.

Crispen lay reclined in the bed, a remote in his hand as he flicked aimlessly through channels. The TV droned on in the background, its cheerful chatter a sharp contrast to the realityof their situation. He looked remarkably nonchalant, as if he weren’t recovering from an attack—or mourning the loss of his girlfriend, now lying cold in the morgue.

What struck Charlie, though, was the emptiness of the room. No visitors, no family, not even his overbearing father. For a fleeting moment, pity stirred in her chest. Then he spoke.

“What are you doing here?” Crispen’s tone was sharp, dismissive, as if her presence was an inconvenience.

Charlie’s fleeting pity evaporated. She crossed her arms, her gaze hardening. “Maybe start with ‘thank you’ before you catch an attitude, Crispen.”

He grunted, his eyes darting back to the TV. “Fine. Thanks,” his voice was flat, dripping with sarcasm.

Charlie bit back her frustration. She’d dealt with his self-centered attitude for years—she shouldn’t have expected anything different now. “I’m the one who sent the cops to find you,” she reminded him, her tone edged with steel.

“Yeah, well. Thanks,” he repeated, barely looking at her.

Her jaw tightened, but she pressed on, stepping closer to the bed. “Why?”

That one word hung in the air between them, heavier than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t just about Ashley. It was about all of it—the choices, the pain, the chaos. She needed an answer, something that could make sense of the wreckage Ashley had left behind.

For a moment, Crispen didn’t respond. His thumb hovered over the remote, the glow of the TV casting harsh shadows across his face. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were guarded, his expression unreadable.

Crispen rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain, “Why what?”

Charlie took a step closer, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. “Why did you and Ashley do all the crappy things to me?”

For a moment, she thought he might show a shred of remorse, but then she saw it—the smirk creeping onto his face. It was the same smug, dismissive expression she’d seen too many times before. In that instant, she knew: Crispen was no different than Ashley.

“She was a solid fuck,” he said with a casual shrug. “And she gave wicked head. I didn’t give a shit if she had some vendetta against you.”

Charlie stared at him, the weight of his words crashing into her like a wave. She couldn’t believe she’d ever felt sorry for this man. He wasn’t worth it—not the tears, not the pain, not the energy. He wasn’t worth the air he breathed.

“Well,” she said evenly, her voice cold and steady, “I’ll make sure to tell the cops you knew everything she was doing.”