Page 101 of Only Be Mine

My legs felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else. Like they might fold any second.

The detective keyed something in and pulled the stainless door open.

Cold air spilled out.

Not cool. Not crisp.

Cold like punishment.

Cold like the absence of living things.

I stepped inside, and the smell hit me - sterile and sharp. A clean so aggressive it felt violent. The room was too bright, too white, too quiet. The hum of refrigeration filled my ears like a warning.

I stopped just inside the doorway, unable to move further.

The detective crossed the room and pulled on a latch. He didn’t rush, and that somehow made it worse.

The drawer moved slowly, metal scraping against metal as it slid open.

I locked my knees. Curled my hands into fists so tight my nails cut crescents into my palms. My heart hammered so violently I was certain the sound would give me away, would echo off the sterile walls, announce my fear before I had time to contain it.

Don’t look, I told myself.

I looked anyway.

The sheet covered him at first, just the outline of a body, the suggestion of shoulders, the shape of feet under white fabric.

For one suspended second, my brain tried to paint John there. Tried to force his familiar weight into that outline.

Then the detective folded the sheet back.

And…

Not John.

The realization hit so fast, my lungs seized as if they’d been waiting for permission to breathe.

This man’s skin was darker, weathered, like it had been carved by the sun and years spent outside. His hair was blonde but dull, matted with neglect. A thick beard swallowed most of his face, obscuring whatever softness might have once lived there.

And then the scar.

Jagged and violent. A cruel slash cutting through his eyebrow and down his cheek, angry even in death. A mark that told a story I didn’t recognize.

I knew every line of John’s face. Every freckle. Every familiar plane and hollow. I knew the way his mouth curved when he smiled, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated, the exact shape of his nose because I’d traced it a thousand times with my thumb.

This wasn’t him.

Relief detonated inside me, sharp and overwhelming, so strong it made my knees wobble. I gripped the edge of the metal tray to keep from collapsing.

“That’s not him,” I said, the words spilling out before the detective could even speak. “That’s not John.”

My voice sounded wrong in the room. Too loud. Too alive. Like it didn’t belong among the stainless steel and silence.

The detective studied me, searching for uncertainty, his gaze flicking between me and the body. Like grief might be making me unreliable.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “It’s been ten years.”

Rage flashed hot through the relief. “Yes, I’m sure,” I snapped, then heard how raw my voice sounded and hated it. “I would know.”