Page 65 of I Never Stopped Loving You

Jeremy’s name flashes on my screen as I put the car in drive and pull out of the parking lot.

“Sup?”

“Hey, where you at?”

“Just went for a late-night drive.”

“On a Tuesday? You’re so weird, Cuz. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over. My new neighbor and her friend are sitting out on my porch enjoying the fire pit. This one’s pretty. I think you’d like her.”

“Which one? The neighbor or the friend?”

“The friend. I call dibs on the neighbor. She’s perfect for me, Noah.”

“You say that about every woman you meet, Remy,” I laugh as I hit a deep pothole and can hear James’s body getting tossed around in the cramped space.

“Listen, you’re the one who can’t get over a childhood crush. At least I’m living in the now, fucker.”

“I am living in the now, and right now, I’m busy. Sorry, Jeremy. You’re going to either have to woo them both, or just wait for another night.”

“Did you just say woo? How old are you? Jesus,” he laughs as I start to hear voices in the background.

“Jeremy, you coming?”

“Gotta go, Cuz. Thanks for nothing.”

The phone call ends, and I’m left in complete, blissful silence. Hopefully, he has fun tonight. Either he ends up with two women in bed, or I’ll be hearing about how I’m the one at fault for him getting cock blocked. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me.

I have my target secured. One of the two people I’ve been searching eleven years for. The missing piece that will hopefully get me one step closer to finding my little rabbit.

CHAPTER 30

WILLOW

NOVEMBER PRESENT DAY

The air around me seems to be at a standstill as soon as my hand curls around the old doorknob. I can hear another low caw of a crow off in the back field, but other than that, the whole world is silent. Even the neighbor’s dog has stopped barking.

“Come on, Willow. Open the fucking door. Nothing in there can hurt you anymore,” I whisper to myself as if I’m afraid whatever ghosts are lurking inside will pop out to challenge that statement.

Fuck it. Here goes nothing.

I twist the doorknob, and it easily turns, but the door won’t open. It’s like it’s stuck on something. I press my shoulder against it, trying to wedge it open, but it won’t budge.

Glancing around the covered porch, there doesn’t seem to be anything out here that I can use to wedge into the door frame. I slam my foot against the door twice and notice the slightest bit of movement. One good shove should do it.

I take a step back and run, throwing myself against the door. I can hear the wood groan as it finally pushes free from the frame and flies open. I go toppling into the kitchen and land hard on the dirty linoleum floor. As I roll to my back and close my eyes, faint memories start fading in from the edges of my mind. I can hear my parents shouting and the sounds of my father’s hand hitting my mother’s face, followed by her cries.

When I open my eyes, my mind goes quiet. The old water stains and mold dot along the old popcorn ceilings. Splatters of what looks like sauce or grease are above the stove. Everything feels like it has a layer of rot and disease covering it. That’s what this place is…Rotten.

I sit up and finally look around the room entirely. It’s like I’ve stepped into one of my nightmares. The kitchen table is turned on its side and thrown against the wall. Two chairs are shattered, and the other is pushed against the counter. I get the flicker of a memory of when I once climbed onto the chair, then onto the counter to get down a bowl, only for it to fall and shatter, which caused my dad to punish me.

My eyes fall to the area next to the fridge, just inside the archway that leads to the front room. A dark brown stain covers an area nearly three feet wide. Marks can be seen where something was dragged. It should have been cleaned up years ago by a crime scene team, but just like this house, it was long forgotten.

“I’m so sorry, Mom.”

I crawl a bit closer to the stain and touch my fingers to the edge, and that’s when I notice it. A small mark next to where the blood was pooling that night is a handprint. A small, innocent handprint of dried blood smeared across the tile, belonging to the little girl who didn’t deserve to witness what she did that night. I place my hand over the top of the handprint, and it’s like the memory of that night comes into focus, clearer than ever.

I can feel her arms wrapped around me. Each time he stabbed her, I could feel her arms wrapping tighter, trying to protect me. All she ever tried to do was protect me from him.