Page 34 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

ATLAS

Atlas

Text me when you’re home safe.

It’s two in the morning and there’s still no response.

I’ve drifted off here and there, but I’ve yet to get any real sleep.

I pick up my phone and set it down over and over again.

It’s been almost six hours since she left.

I know these things can take time, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

Shifting my attention from my phone to my car keys, the need to do something gets progressively worse as the time stretches.

Then, I remember the police scanner that was always playing at Fiona’s house.

As teens, we joked it was the world’s worst soundtrack, but right now it feels like a way to connect with Harlowe.

Opening the app store, I download an app and find the Timberline Peak Emergency Service channel.

It’s mostly static until a weary voice finally cuts through, rough with exhaustion. “Scene is secured. Coroner has been notified.”

Both my hands go to my hair as I stare at my phone waiting for more, but there’s nothing. It’s late and I’m probably about to cross dozens of boundaries, but I don’t fucking care.

My keys are in my hand a moment later, my mind already made up. The drive to Harlowe’s is eerie, silent, and quick. With all of Timberline Peak tucked into bed, Phantom is noticeably missing when I pull into her driveway.

But I’m not leaving until I see her with my own eyes. I turn the key, silencing the engine, and get out to wait on her porch.

Almost two hours later, as the sun is rising, the sound of Phantom jolts me out of the half-awake trance I’m in, staring at the blades of grass in her lawns.

She looks devastatingly beautiful, but completely unlike herself.

I stand from the spot on her porch that I’ve made my home, taking inventory.

Physically, she seems okay. Her pants are a darker shade, wet from the thighs down.

Her braided hair is barely hanging on—blonde strands coming loose in a halo around her face.

There’s dirt on her forehead and caked onto her boots, but all of that is physical—it can be washed away with a shower and sleep.

The emptiness in her eyes will be harder to heal, and that tears my heart in two.

She stops in front of me, looking from the truck to the porch like she’s just registering that I’m here.

I don’t say anything, I just open my arms.

Harlowe hesitates for a second, like she’s not sure what to do.

Then she’s in them.

And as soon as my arms close around her, she starts shaking, sobs wracking her body.

We stay like that for minutes, maybe longer, before I loosen my grip just enough to take the keys she’s been clutching between us.

“Where’s Echo?”

“My dad came and got him from the scene hours ago.”

Turning us toward the door, I keep her steady and close as I turn the key in the lock and lead her straight inside to the couch. She comes without a fight when I pull her into my lap and against my chest. She doesn’t offer details about her night and I don’t push.

Eventually, I’ll need to convince her to shower and get to bed, but right now I just want to hold her for as long as she’ll let me.

My shirt is soaked from her tears, but they’ve finally turned to sniffles.

Her breathing has evened out and when I look down, she’s asleep.

Carefully, I shift us on the couch, slowly laying us down.

I know I’m going to pay for this tomorrow when my body aches, but I won’t risk waking her, not when I know how hard it can be to sleep after a loss.

Sliding my phone from my pocket I set an alarm for when I need to head to the clinic. It’s our late morning so I have a little more time than normal.

Whimpers wake me after only an hour and Harlowe is clinging to me, tears leaking from her closed eyes. The word “no” spills from her lips in a broken loop, barely decipherable—a grief-filled plea.

I can’t stand to let her suffer through her nightmares after everything she’s already faced tonight.

“Shhh, Clover. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” I whisper, brushing a hand over her hair, urging her to wake. “I’m here.”

My name leaves her lips like a lifeline, fragile and frayed. Her eyes blink open, unfocused at first, and then lock on mine like I’m her anchor.

“I’m right here,” I murmur, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

She nods, but it’s uncertain, like part of her is still down in that ravine.

“I couldn’t save her,” she whispers.

I pull her tighter against my chest, wishing I could absorb the weight of it all for her.

“I’m sorry. What do you need?”

Her body trembles, but she doesn’t pull away. I feel her tears soak into my shirt again, quieter this time, as if her grief is folding in on her.

“Don’t leave me. Not yet,” she begs.

I hold on like it’ll matter. Like if I stay here long enough and hold her tight enough, she’ll start to believe she’s not alone in this.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need a shower,” she says suddenly, sitting upright with a sense of urgency.

“Okay. If that’s what you want, I can wait here.”

More wisps of blonde hair fall free from her braid as she shakes her head from side to side. “No. You can’t leave me.” Raw despair cracks in her voice.

“Hey.” I cup her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want a shower, you’ll get a shower.”

She just nods, crawling from my lap and leading me to the bathroom at the back of the house. She doesn’t turn on the lights, relying on the glow from the early morning sun pouring in through the small frosted window.

Fuck, I knew this bathroom was small, but the two of us in here . . . it’s tighter than I’d like right now. With her back turned to me and her attention on the floor, I take in the space. There’s no way to stay out of her space, but I don’t want to overwhelm Harlowe even if she’s asking me to stay.

I catch her flinching in the mirror when she lifts her hand to undo the buttons on her flannel.

She stops and drops it, pressing her palm into the counter and bowing her head.

A deep, sucking inhale lifts her shoulders.

I can’t see her face, but I know she’s fighting to maintain her composure with everything she has right now.

Almost like it was okay for her to break in the dark, but with the mirror reflecting back at her, she can’t.

The idea of giving her space washes down the drain. I step in closer, my hands sliding down her arms, until our fingers are locked together, linking us.

Slowly, she lifts her head and looks at me in the mirror through red-rimmed eyes. I’m sure this isn’t her first loss, but I’ve seen a lot of it over the years and it never gets easier. I wrap both our arms around her middle, letting her know I’ve got her.

“I used to think that losing a patient would get easier, or maybe that I just needed to get stronger. So, I’d fight to hold it together, thinking that would make it hurt less, that it could keep the pain and anger from swallowing me whole.

She doesn’t look away from the mirror, just keeps her eyes on mine.

“But grief doesn’t want to ruin you. Your pain won’t break you, it just wants to be seen. Heard. Felt. And it’s not a weakness, Harlowe. It’s the cost of giving a damn.

“Sometimes, after sitting with a family that just lost a piece of themselves, I’ll lock myself in my office and cry. Not because I did something wrong. Not because I failed. But because it mattered, because their pain mattered. And I’m allowed to feel that pain too.”

Her jaw tightens like she’s trying to lock the emotion inside.

“You showed up. You did everything you could. You didn’t turn away.

That’s what’s going to hurt the most—but it’s also what makes you the kind of person people need.

It makes you the leader the team needs. The compassion you feel, how hard you fight for everyone, sets you apart.

Your heart isn’t a burden, it’s what makes you, you. ”

I drop my lips to the top of her head, my voice quiet in the tight space.

“You don’t have to hold it together. You don’t have to be okay yet. I’m here. And when the guilt hits again, when your heart aches like you’ve been crushed from the inside, I’ll still be here.”

She lifts our hands to the buttons at the top of her shirt, not hiding her grimace this time. Leaning into me and letting me take her weight, she gives into the heaviness and lets me take over with one word. “Please.”

I turn on the shower, letting it warm up for her before I undo each button, watching my fingers as I work.

The flannel starts the pile of clothes on the floor that grows when I work her stiff pants down her legs.

I turn us from the mirror and lift her arms, careful to move her slowly.

I remove her sports bra and then her underwear.

Guiding her into the shower, intent on waiting for her out here, but her fingers clamp down on my forearm.

I nod and pull my shirt over my head, before I shuck my jeans off, stepping in behind her in only my boxer briefs.

She turns toward me and I pull her into my arms, letting her stand under the spray for as long as she needs, my chin resting on the top of her head. Eventually, she looks up at me with tired eyes.

“Will you wash my hair? I can’t—my arms . . . I’m just so tired. The extraction took too long and I couldn’t stop compressions until they got to her.”

She swallows hard, her voice cracking.

“I couldn’t be the reason a family lost their daughter—because I was too tired, too weak to keep going.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” I tell her, switching our positions, so I’m in the spray and she’s facing away from me.

I fumble with the hair tie as I undo her braid and work my way up, untangling and untwisting her matted strands.

My fingers work the shampoo into her scalp and I watch as some of the tension she’s still holding eases from her shoulders.

We turn and rinse and she lets me move her around, her arms hanging at her side.

Moving us again, I start on the conditioner.

I kneel, washing her mud-splattered legs, back, and arms. Then she takes the loofa from me, washing her front as she leans against me before I turn her to rinse one last time.

When we get out, I wrap the towel around her first, tucking the end under her arms before grabbing a second and squeezing the excess water from the ends of her hair. She reaches out and grabs the last towel, handing it to me. I wrap it around my waist and toss my soaked boxer briefs in the shower.

“I know you need to get to work soon, but can you lie with me until I fall back asleep?”

I nod, following her out of the bathroom and up the stairs.

When she crawls into bed, the towel still wrapped around her, I follow suit.

She doesn’t let me stray far, pressing her back to my front and pulling my arm around her.

I tug her closer yet, not wanting any doubt that I’m right where I want to be to creep into the gap between us.

Somehow, even though there’s nothing remotely sexual about the scenario, this feels more intimate than anything else I’ve ever experienced. Tonight, she’s given me pieces of herself through raw vulnerability.

She falls asleep almost immediately, but it’s not restful. Her body thrashes against the sheets, and at times, I think she’s crying. Whimpers pierce the silence, but I don’t wake her. Being awake with the pain is worse than the haze of a dream, even one as awful as she’s having.

Instead, I hold her when she’ll let me until I have to leave to open the clinic. When I kiss her on the forehead and promise to come check on her later, she hums weakly and rolls over, stealing the pillow I was using as a replacement for my comfort.