Page 24 of Undone

Being single implied a breakup, some kind of conversation—an argument, or at least closure.

I had nothing.

The FBI questioning me months ago left me anxious and angry, but Dorian’s revelation of John’s true identity felt like my world had been obliterated.

Since then, the news broke. Everyone knew John was a murderer. More victims were linked to him—each death disturbingly similar.

They were all warped versions of Sleeping Beauty—painfully pretty and perfectly posed.

And that’s what gnawed at me whenever I was alone with my thoughts.

Was I an exception? A placeholder? Or just the biggest fool in his elaborate, deadly lie?

The FBI offered no answers, only curt acknowledgments and a vague promise that they were working on it. But I wasn’t sure what was worse—knowing the truth or being left to fill in the gaps with my imagination. And on days like today, when love seemed to exist in every corner of space, those gaps seemed especially wide.

A lump formed in my throat, and tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back furiously.

I wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in the only space that brought me joy.

Instead, I let out a breath, straightened a stack of glitter-covered papers, and told myself that Monday would come soon enough.

I shook my head and stepped out of the classroom, my footsteps echoing faintly in the empty hallway. Pushing open the front doors, I was met by the cool drizzle of a typical Seattle afternoon.

Memories of John played on a relentless loop in my mind. Despite months of therapy, a part of me still felt irreparably broken.

My mother loved him as her own; my dad became the only father figure he’d known, guiding him in his career and helping John get a job at his company.

The rain fell in heavy drops as I walked through the overcast streets, the fading light of the February afternoon guiding me toward my apartment.

My apartment—not mine and Dotty’s anymore.

She moved out, and I couldn’t blame her—she’d found her happily ever after, but I now had to face this new reality on my own. She’d invited me more than once to join her in Woodstone Falls. But I couldn’t.

I needed to prove, even if it was only to myself, that I wasn’t running away.

As I walked, a faint whimper caught my attention from an alley to my right. I hesitated, but curiosity and concern nudged me closer. The small cries grew louder, fragile and desperate against the sound of the rain. I moved carefully toward the sound.

Then I saw it—a dog, crumpled on the cold, wet ground. Its wide, frightened eyes locked onto mine, pleading silently for help. Something in that gaze twisted deep in my chest, a reflection of the loneliness I’d been carrying.

Abandoned. Vulnerable. Lost in a world that clearly turned its back on him. The same ache in my heart, the weight of betrayal and solitude—it was all there, reflected in his limp body.

But here, at least, I could do something. I couldn’t fix my broken pieces, but I could help him.

He was a small Shiba, his wet fur matted with mud. A patchwork of browns and black marked his coat while his eyes were a deep brown. He tried to stand but refused to put weight on one of his legs, clearly injured.

“Hey there, buddy,” I murmured, reaching out a tentative hand. He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. “It’s okay. I’m here to help you.” I knelt beside him.

I pulled out my phone, the chill biting at my stiff fingers.

Should I look up an emergency vet? Call animal control?

The rain poured harder, each drop striking the screen that blurred the display. My fingers fumbled uselessly, the moisture making every swipe a struggle.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

My breath hitched as I stared at the glowing mess, the answer nowhere in sight.

I stopped, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Panicking wouldn’t help me or this dog.

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