Page 38 of Witch's Wolf

I’m not coming back until I have answers. She owes me that much.

She’d chased me relentlessly. I’d dodged, resisted, rejected her over and over but she never backed down. And then, the second I gave in, the second I let myself believe, she vanishes. If that isn’t insanity, I don’t know what is.

You can run Erica, but I’m coming. You don’t get to do this to me without telling me the truth.

21

SAM

51st Street presses in all around. The close built buildings, cracked sidewalks, and the stink of rotting trash piled beside overflowing dumpsters making the air thick and sour. The city hums with restless energy, but here, in front of Erica’s house, everything feels still. Too still.

I kill the jeep’s engine and sit for a moment, fingers flexing against the wheel. If she’s home, this could go sideways fast. She could slam the door in my face. Tell me to leave. Pretend like I don’t exist. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe I should start the Jeep, back out, and let this go.

No. I shouldn’t have gotten involved, I knew better, but I did and it can’t end like this.

I slide out of the Jeep, careful to close the door without a sound. The cold air is nothing compared to the tension curling inside me, tight and unrelenting. There’s no sign of her BMW and no glow from the windows. The house is a silent, dark shell. Empty.

Senses on edge, I move closer with exaggerated caution, my boots barely making a sound. The side window is covered indust, streaked with old fingerprints. A lifetime ago, I might’ve walked up like I belonged here, but not anymore.

I knock on the door, feigning that I’m not on edge and ready for anything. Nothing. Not even a hint of her scent. I look around, considering. Breaking in isn’t an option. Too many eyes in a neighborhood like this. The last thing I need is some nosy neighbor calling the cops before I get the answers I came for. My gaze drifts to the shed. Small. Isolated. Tucked in the shadows of the house.

That’ll do.

The handle is cold and grimy beneath my fingers, rust flaking against my palm. I test it. Locked. Figures. With a sharp breath, I brace my shoulder against the wood and shove. The hinges groan in protest before something snaps and metal clatters to the floor in a sharp burst of noise. I freeze, heart hammering, but no lights flick on. No angry shouts, only silence.

Stepping inside the air is stale and thick with dust. Moonlight filters through a grimy window, casting weak silver slashes across the floor. I’d kind of half-planned to wait here until she comes home. Confront her and get my damn answers. But one of the multiples of boxes catches my attention. Going to it I pull it out of the corner and inspect it. A name is written on the top.

Michael

Who the hell is Michael?An involuntary growl slips.Is this who she left me for?

My fingers curl into jealous fists. Rational explanations exist. A brother. A cousin. A friend. But my gut twists, instinctsscreaming that it’s not that simple. If it was, why would it be shoved out here, collecting dust? My hand hovers over the lid. I shouldn’t do this.

Fuck it. She left me and I deserve answers.

I lift the lid. The first thing I see inside is the corner of a silver picture frame. I pull it out of the box and blow dust off, revealing a beautiful picture. Erica in a bright-red bikini, arms around a tall man’s neck, her side to the camera. He had to be six feet tall or even more. His build is similar to mine, a hint of a beard and short, black hair. Turning the frame over there’s a white label.

7-2-2016

Me and Michael in Catalina, California

I set the frame to one side and pull the next thing out of the box. A yellowed newspaper article but it’s written in Spanish. I speak Spanish but I’m rusty at it. I stare at the headline.

“Americano muerto en el camino de la muerte.”

I mutter the words, sounding them out in an attempt to try and work the rust off my language skills.

“American dies on death road…?”

I read the rest of the article, decoding it on the fly. It describes that a Land Rover rolled off a cliff, on what was considered the most dangerous road in the whole world. Located in Bolivia, it had earned its notoriety by claiming hundreds of lives each year. The name in that article connects the dots. Michael Stockton.

I read it again, slower this time, trying to piece it together. Catalina. A vacation. The way she clung to him in that picture. He wasn’t just someone in her life. He was everything.

And he’s gone.

I exhale sharply. This isn’t what I expected. I came here for answers, to rip away the bullshit, to demand to know why she ran like I was some goddamn mistake. Instead, I find this grief packed away in a dusty box, hidden where no one would find it. Except I did.

I scratch my chin, trying to force my pulse to slow. She never told me. Never gave a hint. But I recognized that kind of pain. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve lived with it. The pieces click together, and suddenly, everything about Erica makes a brutal kind of sense.

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