Page 98 of Still Beating

I freeze as I stare at his question, my body going numb. I haven’t seen anything—in fact, I generally scroll right past all posts and articles that have the name ‘Earl’ attached to them.

Me:No…

Only five seconds pass when a screenshot comes through, the picture slowly loading. I zoom in to read the headline:

“Victim of Earl Timothy Hubbard, also known as ‘The Matchmaker’, comes forward”

I read it again.

Then again.

My insides churn with disbelief. There’s another victim out there…alive? I don’t even read the corresponding article. I call Dean immediately.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Oh, my God.” My hand flies up to grasp my neck, scratching at my collarbone as I try to regain my composure. “Holy crap, Dean.”

“Yeah. I was reading all about it right before you texted me.”

I swallow. “What did it say? Did she give an interview? How did she escape?”

I hear him moving around on the other end with a faint rustling in the background. “Her name is Tabitha Brighton. She claims she was abducted by Earl last spring, along with her college professor. They were kept in the basement for two months before Earl killed the guy and let her go.”

“Let hergo?” I repeat, dumbfounded. My heart is rattling my ribs and I start to tremble. “She’s lying. She’s got to be lying. That man didn’t have a single shred of decency inside him—there’s no way he’d let one of his victims go.”

“I don’t know, Cora. It’s still a developing story, but the professor checked out. His name was Matthew Gleason and he was one of the confirmed bodies found on the property.”

“I-It can’t be true. There’s no one else…” My breathing escalates as I lean back against the decorative pillows, staring up at the ceiling and clutching my chest. “There’s no one else.”

“I mean, it makes sense,” Dean replies. “There were eleven bodies found, yet he took his victims in pairs. I just figured there was either someone they hadn’t discovered, or he’d practiced his sick shit on someone solo first.”

“But… why wait all this time to come forward? So many victims could have been saved.Wecould have been saved.” I stand from the bed and start pacing the room. “She must be lying. She’s looking for attention, o-or money, or to see her name in history books one day. She’s a fraud, Dean.”

“Corabelle…” His voice softens, trying to soothe me through the speaker. “I’m sure more details will come out, but why does it even matter? What’s done is done. There’s no changing anything.”

“Because!” I exclaim. “Tessie and her stepbrother would still be alive, along with countless others. We wouldn’t have been abducted from your car in the middle of the night, shackled like dogs, forced to do…” My breath hitches, my fingers still curled around my neck, my emotions peaking. “Everything would be like it’s supposed to be. We’d still hate each other, you’d be married to Mandy, and I wouldn’t be standing here wondering how the hell I’m supposed to stop falling for you.”

I cup my hand around my mouth as a small cry breaks out, my eyes squeezing out hot tears. My strangled breaths echo throughout the small guest room, and I wish he’d say something,anything, just so my anguish isn’t the only sound humming in our ears.

“Cora… everythingisthe way it’s supposed to be. This is how the cards fell. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can heal.”

I suck in a calming breath, allowing his words to sweep through me. He’s right, of course. I’ve been stuck in a perpetual state of ‘what if’ and ‘what should be’ instead of acceptingwhat isand working through it. This new development of a surviving victim is only heightening my warped thought process. I exhale through my nod. “Yeah. You’re right,” I whisper. I smooth back my hair and finish, “I should get going. Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean pauses, then lets out a sigh that sounds like disappointment. “You don’t think we should talk about last night?”

My cheeks burn from the memory. “Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Cora, I can’t do this.”

I bite down on my tongue and fiddle with the pendant on my necklace. “Do what?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

“I don’t know what this is,” I admit.

“Well, I can’t do it—this push and pull with you. It’s fucking me up.”

I close my eyes, processing my response, when my mother appears in the doorway, tapping her knuckles against the frame. She mouths to me, “Are you okay?”

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