C
hris sat on the floor of his living room, smoke curling from the half-burned cigarette between his fingers. He hadn't smoked since Stephanie since their last date, when she'd told him truths he couldn't forget. But tonight, he needed something to dull the rage clawing inside him.
The photographs from the private investigator lay spread across the table. Susan's battered face in another man's case file. The bruises. The broken arm. He couldn't stop imagining her in that condition again, suffering while he sat in comfort. He found himself whispering promises to the walls heaven and earth, vengeance and salvation. Anything, if only she survived long enough to be found.
The doorbell shattered his thoughts, ringing over and over, impatient and manic. Chris rose, frowning. On the screen, the visitor's face was half-hidden under a cap. His gut clenched. He texted Michael: "Come with the cops now."
"Who is it?" Chris called.
No answer. The bell screamed again. He opened the door.
The man standing there was one he'd only seen in photographs hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks, twitching fingers.
"Can I help you?" Chris asked, voice low.
Derek stared at him. "Why are you doing too much for someone else's girl?" His words slurred, thick with something broken. "You have money? That's it? She was mine. I had her first."
Chris's blood chilled. The sheer madness of it Derek had kidnapped her, tortured her, and now stood on his doorstep as if this were a lover's quarrel.
"Where is she?" Chris demanded.
"You don't need to know." Derek's hand dipped into his pocket, and a glint of metal appeared. A knife. His eyes were fever-bright. "All I need is to take you out of the picture. Then she'll stop asking me to let her go…."
Chris's fist cut him off mid-sentence. The knife clattered to the floor as Derek staggered back, clutching his face. For a heartbeat, Chris saw hurt there like a child denied a toy.
"Haven't you done…."
"Shut the fuck up!" Chris roared, slamming him against the wall. "Tell me where she is or pray the cops get to you first."
"She's with me," Derek gasped, voice cracking. "She was mine."
"You don't love her, you sick bastard you hurt her. You've hurt her again, haven't you?" Chris's grip tightened on his collar, rage bubbling over.
"She's only getting punished…."
Chris's knuckles crushed into his face again, again, until Derek dropped to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
"What did you do to her?" Chris shouted, his fists raining down. He didn't stop not even when Derek's arms curled defensively, not even when his body went limp.
Hands yanked him back. "Chris! Enough!" Michael shoved him against the wall. "You'll kill him. Let the cops handle it."
Chris's chest heaved, fury shaking through him. He raked his hands through his hair as officers poured into the room.
The interrogation was agony to watch.
"She'll go back to you," one officer coaxed Derek. "We just want to make sure she's alive."
"No!" Derek thrashed against the cuffs. "You'll give her to him! She's mine! She doesn't leave me!"
Chris's fists curled, but Michael's grip on his arm was iron.
The cop's voice softened. "We don't work for him. We work for the government. He'll pay for hitting you, but we need her location. That's all."
Derek's silence stretched into eternity. Then, finally, he nodded.
The drive was torture. Michael drove, steady and cautious, while Chris barked at him to go faster, every mile stretching like a knife in his gut.
At last, the trees parted. A lone house crouched in the woods; its windows dark. The cops went in with Derek, while Chris and Michael waited outside, Chris's fists trembling, his chest hollow.
Minutes dragged.
Then Derek emerged in cuffs, screaming betrayal. Chris barely heard him because behind Derek, a cop carried Susan in his arms.
She looked lifeless. Too pale. Too still.
Chris's legs nearly gave out.
Her body was laid onto a stretcher, paramedics swarming. He followed, numb, his ears ringing as orders were shouted. Blood loss. Starvation. Dehydration. Words that felt like knives.
In the ambulance, he sat beside her, staring at her fragile frame. Guilt devoured him. He had left her unprotected. He had underestimated his aunt. He had failed.
Susan drifted in a fog. She thought she'd never leave the dark room, never breathe fresh air again. She thought she'd never see Chris never feel the strange strength he made her believe she had. She would've given anything to see him one last time, just to apologize.
The steady beep of a machine pulled her back. Light pierced her eyes. She blinked into a hospital room.
For a heartbeat, panic seized her. She needed to run, find a crowd, escape. She pushed herself up, but the world tilted.
She didn't fall. Strong arms caught her, steady and warm. The scent familiar. The touch gentle.
Her gaze lifted.
"Chris…" The name broke in a cough.
He shook his head and pulled her against him, his embrace tight, trembling. Then he eased her back onto the bed, smoothing her hair with hands that shook.
"I'll get the doctor. Don't move," he whispered. She nodded, drinking in the sound of his voice, something she'd thought she'd never hear again.
When the doctor left, she reached for him. His hand found hers instantly, their fingers locking together like lifelines.
Tears spilled as she buried her face against him, clutching like she'd never let go. "I'm sorry," she sobbed.
His hold tightened, saying everything his words couldn't. He wasn't letting her go.
She lay back at last, refusing to release his hand. He stroked her hair, gaze averted, shame shadowing his face. He looked different less sure, less unshakable.
Her heart twisted. Maybe she had dragged him too deep into her darkness. Maybe she had ruined the confidence of a man who once seemed untouchable. She tried to pull her hand away.
He let go.
The cold hit instantly, but she forced a smile. Even if they weren't meant to last, she would always be grateful to him for finding her, for saving her.