Page 66 of Wrecked for Love
Two days had passed. I’d mastered the art of avoiding sleep—though I was already an expert—but this morning, the ring of my phone jolted me like an alarm clock.
“Thompson Falls,” a gruff voice said. Mr. Gunn. No mistaking it.
I didn’t waste time thinking. I just went. As I drove, Mr. Gunn explained that the shelter owner there had found an envelope full of cash—dropped off just before opening this morning. Someone had seen her.
Thompson Falls was even smaller than Buffaloberry Hill, and I couldn’t spot her anywhere. So, I gambled and headed north.
Time hadn’t healed, and I still felt the hurt. But what was worse? Time also had a way of making me question my own truth. I’d painted her as a killer. Was that even fair? I hadn’t even let her speak. She’d been running from New York because she’d killed people there. I accepted that. But why had I been so quick to dismiss her when she looked so desperate for me to believe Armand Voss had attacked her and that she’d killed him? Was she really capable of spinning such a wild lie? Insisting it had really happened even without a shred of proof?
I felt even more lost now than I had this morning.
If my initial reaction had been right, why did I feel this awful now? Why did every nerve in my body keep tormenting me, like invisible hands were pressing in—tightening, searing, and wringing the life out of me as if that was the only way I could see sense?
My heart—damn, my heart—was still on her side. Was that foolishness or plain honesty?
No matter what the answers were, one truth hit me harder than anything else. I was going to lose her. For good. There was no trace of her anywhere. But I couldn’t go back. Not even to The Lazy Moose. Not to buy a new mattress or pretend I could just move on. No part of me would let me do that.
After what felt like hours of chasing every dead end and sniffing out clues like a hound dog, I finally got a break. A familiar gray Ford sedan parked near a diner. It was hers.
I pulled into the lot just in time to catch sight of her stepping out of the diner with her head down, completely unaware. I eased my truck into reverse, quietly blocking her in before she could even think about leaving.
“The hell!” she yelled, startled, then stopped cold when she realized it was me.
Her eyes flared with something between frustration and disbelief, a spark of that Claire fire I knew so well.
“Move the truck,” she said, her tone defiant. “Now.”
“Not a chance, Claire.” I jumped out and left the door wide open, too focused on keeping her in my sight to bother closing it.
“So you want to talk?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“No, I don’t.” I shook my head adamantly.
She frowned, releasing a muted “Huh?”
“I want a confession,” I said, locking my gaze with hers.
Before I could blink, she bolted—not away, but straight toward me. She threw herself into my open truck, the keys still in the ignition, and then she locked the door.
“Damn it!” I shouted, lunging onto the hood. I wasn’t about to let her slip away again.
She drove forward, her face flushing, her hands gripping the wheel like she wanted to tear it off. “Let me go, Elia!”
“No! What are you gonna do? Run me over?” I clung to the hood, adrenaline pumping. “Remove me like the others?”
People started to gather, their eyes on us, but I didn’t care. She threw her hands up in frustration, then shoved the door open. I slid inside, and she shifted to the passenger seat, letting me take control.
I pulled out of the parking lot, driving to the other side where we’d have some privacy. This wasn’t going to be easy, but I was done with easy.
“Tell me who you really are, Claire.” My voice came out firm, though I felt a quiet faith in her. I needed her truth. Whether I walked away from this or held her in my arms at the end, I wanted to leave nothing unsaid.
For a long moment, she didn’t speak. I waited with the patience of a detective—hell, I could wait as long as it took.
Finally, she broke the silence. “So…you found out.”
“Who. Are. You?” I repeated.
She tensed her throat, looking more fragile than I’d ever seen her. “My name is Claire Magnussen,” she declared, her tone crisp as if ready to lay everything bare.
