Page 12 of Somewhere Without You

Eleven

People think leaving is easy. They believe that after the first insult, the first blow, there’s no room for second chances.

Butthose people are wrong.

I used to think the same way. I didn’tknowanyone whohadbeen in a violent relationship, butI’dreadbooks,watchedmovies, and seen plenty of true crime documentaries. They always ended in tragedy—fatalities, notjustbruises or broken bones.

I used to roll my eyes, thinking those womenwereweak, cowardly.

Now, Iknewbetter.

Iknewhow easy itwasto justify bad behavior—to pull excuses from thin air, letting them slip off your tongue in sweet, comforting lies.

Iknewhow easy itwasto turn a blind eye, to believe every word they said—thatthey loved you,thatthey’dnever do it again. Iknewhow easy itwasto convince yourselfthatitwasn’ttheir fault.

You made them do it.

The monitor next to me beepedsteadily. My eyes flickered open, struggling to focus on the blinding white walls of the hospital room. The world swam around me, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the haze.

Every muscle in my body screamed. My armswerecoveredin angry welts, a map of hurt etched in red.

They were marks of anger. Marks of rage. Marks of hate.

“Emily,”my sister’s voice, thick with emotion, broke through the stillness. She leaned forward, her hands enveloping mine.Therewasso much she wanted to say, but instead, a strangled sob stole the words from her throat.

I tried to speak. “It’s—” My voice came out raspy and unrecognizable. Flashes of Jackson’s hands around my neck danced before my eyes—the crushing pressure, the frantic battle for air. The factthatIcouldevenutter a wordwas a miracle.

“It’s okay,”I managed, forcing the words through the pain.“I’m okay.”

“It’s not okay,”Katherine insisted, her voice shaking.“None of this is okay.” She pressed her face into my hair, her breath hitching. “This is my fault. This is all my fault.”

“None of this. . .wasyour fault,”I gasped, each word a monumental effort.“Where’s Jackson?”

Katherine’s griefinstantlymorphed into hatred.“Hiding,”she hissed, her face flushing with anger.“Andifthatpiece of shitknowswhat’sgoodfor him, he’ll stay hidden.”

My mind flickered to New York.“I’m so sor—”

“Don’t you dare,”Katherine cut me off, her brown eyes blazing.“Don’t you dare fucking say you’re sorry.”Her fingersgentlycupped my face, and I flinched, the reflex uncontrollable. The fierceness in her eyes softened.“You have nothing to be sorry for. Do youhearme? You did nothing wrong.”

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. Iknewshewasright, but the years of conditioned self-blamewerehard to shake.I’dgrownused to Jackson’s rage, accepting it as a punishment I deserved.

I sat up, trying to focus on Katherine’s face—raw grief clashing with a protective anger.

Evennow, a small weight of guilt pressedheavilyagainst my chest. By tolerating Jackson’s violence, Ihaddraggedher into its suffocating grip.

Seeing her like this twisted something deep inside me.

I might have been the victim, but shewasthe collateral damage.

“How did youknowIwashere?”I asked, still trying to piece together whathadhappened.“Did Rita call you?”

Katherine shook her head, hernormallyvibrant bleached hair looking dull and lifeless against her sun-kissed skin.

“Iwasangry,”she confessed.“Angry with how we left things. Angry at you for walking out on me at lunch.Butmostly, Iwasangry at myself.”Her chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh, broken and defeated.

“I tried calling you to apologize. I wanted to fix things, to try again, but you didn’t answer.

Iwasn’tsurprised. I figured you wouldn’t want to speak to me,evenif youcould.

Butsomething told me to try again, and it went straight to voicemail.

”Shelookedaway, the shame and guilt evident on her face.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to protect you, and when you needed me most, Iwasn’tthere. ”

“Kat—” I started, reaching for her hand, but she pulled away.

“No,”she insisted, her voice firm but shaking,“let me finish. Iknewwhat kind of man Jacksonwas, and I introduced him to you anyway.IfI’dnever sent him to the airportthatday, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You don’tknowthat,”I countered.

“I do,”she shot back.“ItwasGrant’s idea to send him, but I didn’t argue. I should have argued. I should’ve picked you up myself.Instead, I rationalized it, told myself Iwasbeing overprotective.Butwhen Isawthe way helookedat youthatday, IknewI fucked up.”

Above, a woman’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Paging Dr. Daniels. Dr. Daniels, please report to the third floor nurses’ station.”

Katherine’s voice softened again, the heartache bleeding through.

“I couldn’t sleep. Ijusthadthis awful, gnawingfeelingthatsomethingwaswrong.

So I drove over to your house. The gatewasopen, and that’s when Iknewsomethingwasn’tright.

I found you. . . lying on the floor, and I.

. .”She trailed off, her voice breaking.

A raw, anguished cry escaped her lips.“The housewasempty, Emily. Hejustleft youthere, like youweretrash. What kind of person doesthatto someone theysupposedlylove?”

A bitter irony twisted in my chest. The man whohadclaimedto love mehadleftme to die.

“What about the staff?”I asked, my mind racing. Rita would be there first. Would she recognize something was wrong—or just sweep up the glass, ignore the blood, and carry on?

“I dismissed them this morning with a month’s pay, until we figure things out,”Katherine replied flatly.

I arched a brow. “We?”

“Yes, we ,” she saidfirmly. “Ifyou think for one second I’m going to let you go back tothathouse alone, you’re out of your mind.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”I asked, desperation creeping in.

“Isthataseriousquestion?”Katherine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.“You’ll stay with me.”

I shook my head.“What about Grant?” I asked. “He’s Jackson’s best friend, don’t you think. . .”I trailed off, watching as my sister’s face drained of color.“Wait, does heknow?”

Katherine bit her lower lip. “No,”she replied, her gaze falling to the floor. Shelookedlike shehadn’tsleptin days.

“Are you sure?”I pressed, noticing the flicker of regret passing over her face. Shewascaughtbetween her loyalty to me and her marriage to Grant.“This is my mess to clean up,”I insisted.“I won’t bring my trash to your doorstep.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re not going back tothathouse, Emily. I won’t let you.”

“Jackson isn’teventhere,”I argued.

“Exactly,”she countered.“Whoknowswhere he is and when he’ll be back.Andyouknowhe will be back.”

Shewasright. God, I hatedwhenshewasright.

“I have a little bit of cash saved up for emergencies,”I said, thinking of the small, rose-painted tea tin stashed in the back of my closet.“I’ll stay at a hotel until I figure things out.”

“Andwhat if you don’t?”Katherine sat up straighter, eyes hardening.“What if you run out of money beforethen? What if Jackson finds you?”

“What do you want from me, Kat?”Anger bubbled up in my chest as the weight of everything came crashing down.

“Jackson isn’t stupid. Your house will be the first place he’lllook.

AndI’ll be honest with you, I don’tknowif I’m strong enough to leave him.

You don’t understand how charming he is, how convincing he can be.

”My voice cracked, and hot tears spilled down my cheeks. “Mom’s gone, Gran’s dead, and—”

“Gran!”Katherine shouted, her voice frantic.“Oh my God, Emily. . . that’s it.”

I tilted my head.“Did you nothearme? Gran’s dead. She’s gone.”

“Yes, but her house isn’t,”Katherines eyes gleamed with manic excitement.“She left it to both of us. It’s perfect.”

Perfect. Perfect for her,maybe.Butfor me? I thought of the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Windhaven, tucked away in the Appalachian hills. The oneI’dbeen dragged to after Mom’s death. The oneI’dswornI’dleave and never return to.

“Kat, I can’t. . .”I murmured, sinking further into the bed.

“Why not?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

I sighed, trying to find the right words, buttherewasn’tagoodenough reason.

At least not one Icouldshare with her.

Crawling backtherefeltlike admitting defeat.

Itwasn’tjustthe stifling small-town atmosphere, or the way people avoided us because Granhadalways been different.

Therewereother things. ThingsI’dburiedso deep I thought theyweregoneforgood.

Things I wanted to run from and neverlookback.

Going home would mean reopening wounds Ihadspentyears stitching shut.

“I don’t want to be alone,”I said, the words a half-truth.

Katherine’s small hands wrapped around mine, her grip tight as she searched my face.“Aslong as we have each other,you’ll never be alone.”