Page 27

Twenty Four

Past

T wo weeks.

Two weeks of silence.

Two weeks of trying to erase him, trying to breathe without him. But the loneliness sits in my chest like a stone, pressing harder and harder until I can’t bear it anymore.

My hand shakes as I press the phone to my ear.

The line rings once.

Twice.

And then—

“Robin.” His voice is a rasp, raw and desperate, and I nearly drop the phone. A choked sound catches in my throat, my vision blurring as I close my eyes.

I shouldn’t have called.

“Robin, please, talk to me,” he pleads, his volume rising.

I needed to hear his voice, needed to know if I was the only one drowning in this unbearable ache.

“God dammit,” he roars, “I should have told you.”

But before I can speak, before I can ask him anything—

There’s shouting. A commotion.

“What the fuck?” A man’s voice, angry and alarmed.

More yelling. A woman screams. Something clatters in the background.

“Who the hell are you?”

And then—chaos.

Thudding footsteps. A crash. Another scream.

“Cooper?” My voice is barely a whisper. “What’s happening?”

But the line is already dead.

My heart slams against my ribs as I stare at my phone, bile rising in my throat.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

***

He didn’t answer his phone the rest of the night. I barely slept. Thankful that it’s the weekend, I lounge in bed until finally the desire to pee overwhelms me and I force myself up.

Downstairs, I feed Flash and let him out.

I grab the remote and flip on the news then pour myself a mug of coffee before heading to the couch to curl up.

The words on the screen send ice straight through my veins, dread curling in my gut.

‘Local Business Owner Arrested for Secretly Watching Guests at the Ocean Voyeur.’

The image of him flashes across the screen—his face pale, his lips pressed into a tight line as he’s shoved into the back of a police car.

My stomach drops.

No.

This can’t be happening.

I read the words again, but they don’t change. The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating. My mind races. How long has he been watching them? The whole time we were together? Was he slipping away to the tunnels after we made love? Before?

And then another thought hits me like a freight train—

My career. My license.

I gag, pressing a hand to my mouth.

Oh, God. I was involved with him. My patient.

It’s only a matter of time before someone finds out. Before my name is dragged into this.

Flash scratches at the door. On shaky legs, I stand to let him inside. Tears stream down my face. I can hardly breathe.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table.

An unfamiliar number.

I hesitate. Then answer.

“Dr. Richardson?” A deep, clipped voice on the other end.

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

“This is Detective Halloway, we need to ask you some questions about a former patient of yours—Cooper Burick.”

My blood turns to ice.

“We’d like you to come in and make a statement. And—” the detective pauses, his tone sharp, probing, “—we may need you to testify against him.”

The room tilts.

Testify?

Against him?

The man who once whispered my name like a prayer? Who kissed me so deeply it felt like drowning?

Who, despite everything—despite the sickness curling in my stomach, the betrayal clenching my ribs—I know I still love?

I clutch the phone tighter, my breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.