Page 8 of I’ll Find You

“Well, that’s the plan,” she singsongs, her voice light and oblivious. My molars grind together, and my eye twitches with irritation as I force myself to remain silent. I feel Maxwell’s tension ease beside me. But she keeps talking, oblivious to my internal struggle. My stomach lurches violently, and my late lunch threatens to make a reappearance. But apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, because I stay right where I am, breath held tight, heart in my throat, waiting with bated breath for whatever she says next. Maybe I’m craving the ache. To feel something after feeling nothing at all for so long. To let me know that I am still alive and capable of feeling emotions and not just going through the motions. Maybe I want the wound split wide open. To fester and never heal.

She sighs, almost regretfully. “No. He told me that he’s only interested in one person right now. He wants to see where it goes.”

The words flay me wide open. I suck in a sharp breath, but it catches in my throat, as though I've forgotten how to breathe. I force myself to inhale slowly. Three pairs of eyes immediately find me, each waiting for an explanation. I take a few measured breaths, willing my heartbeat to slow. My acting skills are on point.

“Asthma,” I wheeze. “Forgot my inhaler.” I add, this time sounding more convincing. Maxwell nods knowingly. Well, not really, because then he would know that I don’t really have asthma anymore. Not like when I was a child. “The air is just—” I pause as if to catch my breath. “—brutal.” Maxwell starts patting my back with all the finesse of a toddler with a hammer, like he’s trying to dislodge an obstruction from my esophagus—and that’s being unkind to toddlers. “I’m not choking, you moron,” I mutter under my breath. I sidestep out of his reach, pretending to adjust my boot. He barely pays attention, too busy listening to Lucinda ramble about some party this weekend. She clearly wants him to go because those are the next words out of her mouth as she extends the invitation.

He nods. “For sure. I’m there.” He turns his head in my direction, forgetting he'd been trying to pound my lungs into submission a minute ago.

“Babe, you going or what?” he asks, and the word makes me almost flinch. Babe. I hate when he calls me that. I rub my temples. I answer with a half-hearted shrug.

“You know I have to volunteer at the shelter,” I reply noncommittally. Rolling his eyes, he snorts before returning to his conversation, already dismissing what I do there. And for a fleeting moment, I see myself plucking them out with the metal straws I keep in my bag. Clean, simple, and oh-so-satisfying. Lucinda huffs, pretending she wouldn't want him to herself.

“Max, if she doesn’t want to go, leave her alone.” Always playing the benevolent best friend, even though we know she is anything but. Her intentions lie beneath the smooth, venomous tone of her words—a viper waiting in a dark corner for the perfect moment to strike.

I keep my expression neutral, refusing to acknowledge the way she purrs his name, Max—that shortened version of Maxwell that’s way too familiar and drips with implied intimacy. Or the way she leans into him, biting her lip in a cheap attempt at seduction. If they aren’t already sleeping together, then they will be soon. He certainly isn’t getting anything from me. I hate the reek of liquor on his breath every time he comes into my room expecting sex. I’ve told him more than once that the scent brings up memories from my childhood. I’d rather all of it stay buried in that coffin six feet under where my father’s rotting corpse resides. He either doesn’t listen, or worse—he listens and doesn’t care. And if it’s the second one, God help me, I’d almost rather he was simply oblivious.

We step onto the porch, and the boards groan with our weight. The structure sags, as if it has given up trying to hold the weight of renters after all these years. The wind has picked up, making whistling sounds as it slips through the gaps in the wood. The door protests, either from the cold or from the ill fit in the frame, as we pry it open with two pushes. We close the door behind us as we enter our side of the duplex. It’s just one in a long row of student rentals in varying stages of decline. Each one looks barely maintained, passed from tenant to tenant with just enough work to make them livable.

Our shoes echo along the old pine flooring. The boards are dulled and scarred, in desperate need of a good sanding and varnish that will never come. The whole house looks like it has been waiting for a little TLC, silently in this state of despair. I can relate. Sometimes you just need someone to see the beauty in a ruinous state. To see all the broken pieces, gather them up, and remake them into something shiny and new—someone willing to put in the work.

I start to unwind the scarf from my neck, but pause, frowning when I remember that I didn’t get the mail. Leaving my scarf half-unwrapped, I walk toward the back door, which is easier to open. I’ve been waiting for a letter from my aunt and for her latest update on whether we’re spending the holidays together. She still insists on sending me old-fashioned letters while she’s traveling.

I secretly love it. It gives me something to look forward to.

She’s been wandering the country in her RV with her boyfriend, sending me postcards from every new destination. She didn’t have to raise me, but she did. She took me in when my parents died, and with the money from my mother’s life insurance policy, I had the chance to go to college, and she finally has the time to live her life the way she wants.

I glance over at Maxwell and Lucinda, chatting animatedly, while Chelsea rummages through the cupboards for a snack.

“I’m going to grab the mail. Be right back,” I announce, but only Chelsea looks up and smiles before I shut the back door. With my coat wrapped tightly, I step outside, and it greets me with a blast of cold air that catches my breath. I rub my hands together, looking up at the moon that sits high and bright in the sky. The sky is clear, revealing a scattering of stars. I exhale, watching my breath fan out in a whitish plume, as the wind assaults my cheeks, slapping them into a pinkish hue. The mailbox creaks open on its rusty hinges, but I smile when I see I got a postcard from my aunt. I gather the rest of the mail, most of it for my roommates, and turn back toward the door. That’s when I stop. A chill skates down my spine, lifting the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.

I sense that I’m being watched. I spin around, scanning the empty street, but there’s no one. No cars travel past, and no neighbors are out for a walk. The only sound is a dog barking somewhere up the block, breaking the otherwise chilling silence. I don’t wait to investigate further. With the recent posts around campus about another student gone missing, I turn and hurry back inside. It’s hard to imagine something like that happening here, in this sleepy little town where nothing ever does. Clutching the mail to my chest, the unease follows me in, closing around me before the door even clicks shut.

Chapter

Seven

Alex

Iarrive at the animal shelter just before nine. The morning air is chilled, thick with swollen clouds, carrying with it the promise of snow or rain at any moment. It turns everything into a dull shade of grey. It should feel dreary or oppressive, even. But my mood is anything but. For some reason, I woke with a restless excitement I couldn't explain.

Placing my car in park, I take in the lot that houses the Upper Valley animal shelter. The building looks less like a facility and more like a cozy home, with a wide yard stretching toward a low line of mountains in the distance. I hadn’t realized it was so close to my house. Close enough that we share the same small corner of town.

The shelter sits tucked at the end of a sleepy residential street, almost hidden away from the traffic of the interstate. The exterior is weathered, but carefully maintained. A black chain-link fence encloses the backyard, cleared of leaves despite the steady fall of them drifting down all around as winter approaches. I rub my hands together and bring them to my mouth. My warm breath spills into the cold air in puffs of pale white clouds.

Movement catches my attention as a dog trots after a ball as I walk across the lot. He stops short, one front paw lifting as he sniffs the air before meeting my gaze. His oversized floppy ears frame his face in a way that makes the beagle look both regal and faintly ridiculous. He tilts his head, tail wagging with cautious curiosity. A firm but affectionate female voice calls from behind him, telling him to bring the ball back. He obeys, bounding forward, dropping it at the handler’s feet, and eagerly accepting a treat. Laughter follows when he immediately scoops the ball up again, only to drop it once more without fetching it first, clearly expecting another reward in the form of a dog treat. A chuckle escapes me, and I appreciate his persistence. The handler opens the bag, her back turned away from me as she shakes it, but nothing comes out.

A painted sign swings in the cold breeze as I bury my head into my hoodie and walk toward the entrance of the building, anxious to get inside and out of the cold. I’m not used to this cold climate, having lived in Texas my whole life, and I don’t see how anyone can acclimate to it. My once sun-kissed skin now suffers as my vitamin D levels plummet due to a lack of sun exposure. I’m eager to get back to warmer temperatures, already looking forward to winter break, when Texas will still feel warmer than here.

As I open the door, I notice shelter workers, walk in and out, carrying food bowls and leashes. Their voices are soft and patient toward the animals. The slightly medicinal smell of antiseptic mixes with the undertones of aloe and oatmeal, giving the place a sense of calm as the cared-for animals thrive under their gentle hands.

Kennels line the walls, and mostly, dogs peer at me through the cages with curious and wary eyes. Who knows what these animals have seen? Have they come from loving homes where their owner was forced to surrender them, or have they only ever known the confines of a small crate meant to restrain rather than house? Some bark while others curl into blankets or nuzzle stuffed toys placed inside to provide comfort. The murmur of conversation blends with the gentle clatter of carts carrying food and cleaning supplies. The worn linoleum bears countless scratches from paws that have crossed it over the years. The staff kneel to scratch ears, offer treats, or speak soothing words to alleviate the anxiety of some of the animals. Despite the occasional whine, the place radiates with care, and a sanctuary of safety and trust blooms between the staff and the sheltered animals.

As I approach the main desk, I spot Callie heading toward it, her gaze glancing up to the clock on the wall. “Hey,” I say, lifting a hand in greeting as I walk up to her.

She spins toward me, her eyes lighting in delight. “You made it,” she chimes, practically vibrating, restraining the urge to break out into jazz hands. She’s just that type of person—bright, effervescent, and radiating happiness. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I lift my hand again. She clasps hers together, barely containing her excitement.

“I’m so glad you came. And punctual, too. I love that,” she says, already beckoning me forward. “Come on. Let me show you around.”