“I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that must be.”
And I mean it. I’ve suffered, sure—but not like that. Not the kind of loss that rips through your life and leaves everything frozen around a single name.
Well… maybe Darcy. Maybe she’s the closest I’ve ever come.
I think back to Adam, to what we had. It wasn’t love—not the kind that consumes you, not like what stalker boy clearly feltfor her. There was no fire in that life, no ache. Just convenience and routine and a slow unravelling I mistook for stability.
But something catches me. Hewasher husband. That’s how he said it. Past tense. And yet he talks like he still expects her to walk through the door one day.
Does he really believe she’s out there? Or is that the lie he tells himself just to make it through the night without drowning?
Still, one thing’s obvious—grief hasn’t put his life on pause.
The woman on the live feed made that clear enough.
But then again, who am I to judge? From the outside, someone could look at me and say I’m still hung up on Adam—no rebound, no flings, nothing. But that’s not it.
It’s rejection I’m afraid of. More than I care to admit.
Maybe that’s why Darcy and I work so well—worked. We’re total opposites. Chalk and cheese. And she was always the brave one, the bold one. She led. I followed. That’s just how it was.
“I need a word with you after I’ve cleaned up,” he says, breaking the silence as he stacks the plates. “So don’t wander.”
The subject of his possibly-dead wife is very much off the table.
“I can do it—”
“No.” He snaps the words fast, tugging the plate out of my hands like I’ve offended his honour. “I’ll handle it. I like it done my way.”
“Sorry my skills aren’t up to scratch for you,” I mutter, trying not to bristle—but it still hits a little sharper than it should. He makes everything feel like a test I didn’t know I was failing.
He’s a clean freak. But he’s just going to have to get used to me and my ways I’m afraid, at least until we’ve found Darcy.
18
Cam
I think I’m finally getting through to her just how much danger she’s in. I pause the video, right where the sick cunt offers the girl out to his friends, her limp form chained to the wall like a carcass hung to dry.
Talking about these organisations is one thing—seeing them is something else.
Her eyes are wide, lips tight, the usual flush in her cheeks drained to a dull, ashen grey.
“That’s what Darcy’s facing right now?” she whispers, clutching the cat like a lifeline. Poor thing suffers for it—pinned a little too tightly in her arms. He yowls, swipes her with a paw full of insult, then struts over to me with the wounded dignity of a betrayed prince.
I try to push him away—twice—but he just returns, persistent as ever. Eventually, he flops onto his back, stomach up, daring me to pick him up like I haven’t fallen for that trick before.
Little shit.
I know how his brain works.
“Probably. And that’s exactly what you’ll be facing if we don’t stop them.” My tone leaves no room for debate. “You wanted in—this is it. We build a routine. Something predictable. Something they can track.” She shifts, frowning. “Talia’s putting together a schedule. You stick to it. No improvising. You’ll use the tunnel to the house next door for entry and exit.”
“Next door?”
“I own it. From the outside, it’s just another house. But I use it as a safe haven—no ties or records. But in your case, we can use it an address they can track. They can’t see you coming in and out of here, or this whole thing falls apart. You need to take this seriously. No detours. Got it?”
She nods slowly, then; “Yeah… but what about Darcy? How are we going to get her?”
