Page 44 of Always You

“Something is different about you, and I know it's more than just the kittens.”

“There's nothing,” I lied.

Marcus raised a single eyebrow, and he didn't have to call me on my shit because that was enough. We'd worked together for over fifteen years, and he knew me.

Heknewme.

I sighed, realizing there was no hiding the truth, at least not from Marcus. Glancing behind me at the open door, I lowered my tone. “Yeah, it's more,” I admitted, the weight of my feelings making my voice a little heavier. “It's Jazz. I… have all these feelings that never really went away. They just… evolved. All thattime lost when I could have…” I scrubbed at my eyes. “I know what you're going to say, that I shouldn't?—”

“About time,” Marcus interrupted.” Then his expression turned thoughtful. “And finally admitting this isn't a bad thing, Alex. But remember…”

“I know. Jazz is healing, and I'm the owner here, and he has to navigate his own path.”

“That. So, make sure you're not building castles in the air, my friend,” Marcus added, a slight smile softening his words.

I nodded, grateful for his advice and concern. “No castles in the air,” I echoed, feeling a mix of resolve and anticipation. Whatever the future held, I knew it was essential to stay grounded in reality, even as I hoped, perhaps against my better judgment, for a chance to explore the depth of connection Jazz and I seemed destined to revisit.

Like how badly I wanted to kiss him again.

“We have other things to worry about,” Marcus interjected, pulling me back from my tangled thoughts about Jazz.

“Go on,” I said, steeling myself for bad news—stress, concerns over funding, or operational hurdles that were too common in our line of work.

“It's Tyler—Corporal Tyler Mason,” Marcus began, his brows knitting together in concern. “He didn't say a word to anyone yesterday, and straight after breakfast, he returned to his room. There's something off about him that…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the right words, his frown deepening.

“Is this a welfare issue? You think we should intervene?” I asked, already dreading the answer. A welfare check like this meant we could enter someone's room under our duty of care—something we'd only had to resort to a handful of times. It meant we were more than only concerned someone had reached a breaking point and might not come out of it alone.

Marcus sighed, the weight of his role as director apparent in his exhausted demeanor. “Yes, no, I don't know,” he admitted, passing me the intake form. I flicked through the papers. Although I was already familiar with Tyler's case, I made it a point to know everyone and everything at Guardian Hall. I scanned the latest entries for any details I might have missed. The last entry before Marcus’s concerns was in my handwriting, stating Tyler had attended group therapy a few days ago, but had remained his usual reserved self. I hadn't noticed anything too out of the ordinary—if silence and anxiety and sadness could be considered ordinary.

“And your medical opinion?” I knew he couldn’t be specific, but the fear in his eyes spoke volumes, worse when he shook his head.

“I tried,” Marcus replied, his voice tinged with frustration. “He wouldn't let me in, so I talked through the door. He says he’s okay. That's all he said. He was okay.” Marcus mimicked the flatness of Tyler’s tone. “And I just got this feeling…”

His voice trailed off, but the implication hung in the air. Marcus’s instincts were sharp, honed by years of dealing with similar cases, and our gut feelings had seldom led us astray. There wasn't enough on paper for me to justify using the master key on Tyler’s door without further cause, but the unease in Marcus’s voice was hard to ignore.

“Maybe I should try talking to him,” I suggested, already standing. “A fresh face, different approach.”

Marcus’s expression was grateful and worried at the same time. “Keep me posted. If he still won’t open up, we might have to consider more direct intervention.”

“Understood,” I affirmed, feeling the responsibility settle on my shoulders. As I headed toward Tyler's room, my mind raced with possible strategies to reach him, to pierce the isolation he had cocooned himself in. It was delicate, balancing respectfor an individual’s privacy with the imperative to ensure their safety. Each step felt heavy, each breath filled with the cold air of apprehension, but I was determined to do whatever I could to help. Tyler, like every individual under our care, wasn't just a case file to me; he was a person, potentially standing at a precipice. And if I could offer a hand to hold, to pull him back from the edge, then that was what I intended to do.

Only his door was wide open, and immediately, alarm bells rang in my head. As I stepped over the threshold, I paused, taking in the scene before me.

The room was neat, and everything was in precise order. Tyler's bed was made with hospital corners on his sheets, and the blanket was pulled tight enough that it looked like you could bounce a coin off it. There wasn't a single item out of place. On top of it, personal items—probably all he had from his previous life—were arranged in meticulous rows: a photo in a simple frame, a closed book with a bookmark peeking out, and a digital clock displaying the time in bright, unblinking numbers.

But three envelopes, lined up with almost ceremonial precision, were on the bed. One was addressed toMom and Dad, another toJessica, and the third toGuardian Hall.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I processed the implications. Where was Tyler, if not in his room?

Heart pounding, I reached for the envelope addressed to Guardian Hall, hesitating only momentarily before tearing it open. Inside was a short note, the handwriting shaky:I'm sorry. Thank you for trying.The simplicity of the words belied the depth of despair they hinted at, and a wave of shock crashed over me. Had he left? Planned to leave? Was he thinking of…?

I spun on my heel and dashed out of the room, my mind racing with possibilities, all dark. I nearly collided with Marcus in the hallway, who took one look at my face and didn’t even need to ask what was wrong.

“He's left a note,” I managed to say, thrusting the envelope into his hands. “I think he might be planning to leave, but?—”

“There's no sign on security of him leaving the building. He’s here somewhere,” Marcus interjected quickly, his voice tense as he scanned the note. Mutual realization dawned. We had to find him, and fast.

We split up, Marcus heading toward the back of the building while I took the front, each step fueled by urgency. My mind replayed every interaction with Tyler, searching for missed signs or words that could have hinted at his plans. The facility wasn't large, but it felt like a labyrinth as I checked every possible hiding spot.

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