Page 181 of The Darkest Chase

I couldn’t do anything but cry while the boys cackled on.

That day taught me how cruel people can be.

It also taught me that no one was ever coming to save me.

But it turned out I didn’t need Red Harrow or anyone else, not after I dragged myself home with my oxygen tank banging behind me.

I saved myself.

I learned to live with myself.

But I guess some small, wounded part of me still never stopped being that dumb little girl who falls for the worst men.

And it’s that little girl inside me wailing now as I curl up in my room and unleash all the awful feelings building up inside me ever since I bolted away from Micah’s house yesterday.

I haven’t slept all night.

I’ve just been crying myself dry, slipping into a daze, then finding more tears from the darkest places.

I know it’s past time to get up.

It’s morning and Grandpa’s already moving around, the smell of rich coffee permeating the loft, mingled with the sawdust scent from downstairs.

I can already hear the lathe going.

I need to get my butt moving and stop grieving.

Finalize some sketches. Help Grandpa with his latest furniture piece, then go right to the bank to cash Xavier’s check.

Just like chronic asthma, life goes on with a broken heart when there’s work to do.

At least this time, I didn’t lose my words.

I told Micah how I felt before I ran.

I spoke up.

I stood up and I didn’t back down.

And I didn’t let him pull this crap without knowing exactly how much he hurt me.

There’s some pride in that, and that’s what gets me moving.

There’s also enough coffee left in the pot when I drag myself into the kitchen. I pour myself a cup and snag one of the muffins left in a basket on the table.

I nibble at it while I go through the motions of getting cleaned up and changed into clean clothes.

Caffeine makes me functional enough by the time I head in to the workshop.

Through the door to the front of the shop, I think I see a flash of black and white go by, on the way to the station. Probably Micah’s patrol car.

My stomach twists before I look at Grandpa.

He's at his lathe again, still working on those bedposts he’s been shaping for the last week or more.

Nothing Gerald Grey makes is ever fast or easy. But everything is crafted with love and exquisite detail.

By the time he’s finished, he’s memorized every wood grain and tiny groove.

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