Page 12

RAY

I made the right call.

The thought hit like a punch to the chest as I stepped out of Stacy’s building, last night—and it’s been pulsing beneath my skin ever since.

Even now, with morning light spilling across the highway, I’m still wrapped in the feeling Stacy left behind—full, content, lit up from the inside out.

The taste of her kiss clings to my lips like sugar.

Her scent lingers on my skin, my clothes, carved into my damn soul.

Sweet and sun-warmed, like strawberries left on the windowsill.

There was something playful in the way she let me in. Not just into her apartment. Into her.

And yet, there were cracks. Moments where her regrets seeped through, raw and unfiltered. I heard the words on a loop, like a record she couldn’t stop playing.

“I shouldn’t have been so disappointed when you canceled.”

She said it four — no, five times. Each softer, like she wasn’t just telling me, but trying to believe it herself. I held her. Listened. Did what I could. She feels things hard, wears her heart like a wound she never bothers to hide.

It isn’t a flaw. It’s just… who she is. Maybe it’s what draws me to her. That vulnerability and her fire. Before we fell asleep, tangled together, she gave me a tired, almost sheepish smile and whispered she’d let it go. That she wouldn’t bring it up again.

I didn’t believe her, but I wanted to.

Driving down the interstate, surrounded by speeding cars and blaring horns, the warmth of last night cools. That’s the thing about life—it doesn’t wait around. Joy has no defense against death. And I fucking hate death.

It’s too final. Too unforgiving. Especially when it steals someone who had so much to live for.

Stacy told me her mom—Catherine—died at forty-three.

Only forty-three years. That number and her early death won’t stop circling in my head.

It doesn’t add up. Not for a woman who was healthy, active, had her shit together.

She didn’t smoke. Didn’t drink, except the occasional wine with dinner. No drugs—hell, she warned Stacy to stay far away from that crap every chance she got. She worked out regularly, watched what she ate. She was fit. She should’ve lived longer. So why the hell didn’t she?

I’m not a doctor, but something doesn’t add up. And there’s only one person I know who might have answers—Monica. My Alpha’s mate. If anyone can access the truth, it’s her.

The road curves as I descend into the valley, Shandaken sprawling out below me. I ease toward the turnoff, signal ready—but something in me hesitates.

It’s Monday morning. Monica’s probably buried under appointments, drowning in the complaints of half the town’s elderly population. I can already hear Raul’s voice barking in my head if I ask for more time off.

“Hell, no. You were in New York, getting laid. Get your ass in here.”

I almost laugh. He’s not wrong. Whatever. He’ll get over it. I ride past the valley turnoff and head for Shandaken Medical Center. It’s almost ten and if Monica’s slammed, I’ll wait, but I have to try.

I pull up outside and instantly know I’ve lucked out.

The lot’s half-empty. It looks like a quiet day.

Two ambulances sit in front, idle, their drivers leaning against the doors and sipping coffee while they shoot the breeze.

I nod as I drive past. Pulling into a spot, I kill the engine on the Harley.

The growl of the bike fades, leaving behind the soft hum of the town starting its day.

I jog up the steps, trying to collect my thoughts. I’m not exactly a poet when it comes to words. Sammy’s the smooth talker, not me. But Monica’s sharp—smarter than most people I know. I just need to say enough for her to get it. Even if my words come out clumsy.

Stepping inside, I scan the floor. A young nurse pushes a man in a wheelchair to the left. Further down the hallway, a doctor in a white coat disappears through a door. Then I spot Monica. She’s walking briskly beside a nurse, deep in conversation, eyes fixed on a patient’s chart.

“Hey there,” I call, speeding to catch her.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Ray?” She blinks, surprised. Then smiles. “Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here. You’ve been a ghost lately.”

“A redhead we both know,” I say, flicking a glance toward the nurse.

Monica’s smart and catches the hint.

“That’ll be all, Darla. Thanks.” She waits for the nurse to walk away, then turns and looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Is this about Stacy? Is she alright? She left in a rush.”

I shake my head, keeping my tone casual.

“She’s fine. Better than fine, actually,” I say with a grin that I can’t suppress. “Just got back from the city.” Monica gives me a look—part smirk, part knowing. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking…you knew her mom, right? Back before she passed?”

Her face softens, the edges of her mouth turning down.

“Yeah. That was a rough time for her. I was in med school when it happened. Stacy was just finishing high school.”

I nod slowly. “I’ve got questions, but I don’t know how to ask them.”

“Try,” she says.

“Can cancer really take someone that young?”

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Ray, kids die from cancer. Babies. It’s ruthless. And it doesn’t give a damn how old you are. We humans—” her eyes flick to mine “—we’re not built like your kind. We’re more fragile.”

“Yeah, but…” I frown. “Catherine was strong. Healthy. She worked out four days a week. Stacy doesn’t remember a single vice.”

“Sure, it helps,” Monica says with a shrug, “but there’s no such thing as a guarantee.”

My gut twists, but I push on. I don’t know why but something about this entire thing bugs me.

“Did she take her husband’s name? After marriage?”

“Yes,” Monica replies. “Her maiden name was LaVine.”

I hesitate. I know what I’m about to ask won’t sit well, but I can’t let it go.

“Can you… look into her file?”

She stiffens, eyes narrowing, and a frown forming.

“Ray, why?”

“Because something about it doesn’t sit right with me,” I say, low and steady. “She had pancreatic cancer. I looked it up. The average life expectancy’s over three years, but she died in less than one after diagnosis.”

“That’s why it’s called an average,” she says, her tone soft but tight. “Some people live longer. Some a lot less. It’s not an exact science.”

“I get that. But still—please. Will you look? See what you find. Maybe there’s something there. Maybe there’s not. But I… need to know.”

There’s a pause—long enough for tension to crackle in the air between us. Finally, she exhales.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll look.”

“Thank you.” I meet her eyes, holding her gaze so she knows I mean it. “I’ll see you back in Dawson.”

I turn and walk out before she can change her mind. I feel her unease hanging behind me like smoke. I know she doesn’t get it—why I care or why I’m stirring up something that’s been buried almost a decade. Maybe she thinks it’s a fool’s errand.

Maybe it is. I hope it is.

But I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to the story. That a woman so full of life didn’t just fade out without reason. If I’m wrong, fine. I’ll take the hit. But if I’m right…

Then someone has to say it — put the truth on the table. Even if I’m the only one who sees it.