Page 86 of Nothing To Lose
The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Because everything means nothing if I can’t save him.
28
ISAAC
I just got off the phone with Leslie. He’s on his way over with a court officer to remove the ankle monitor. The charges are officially being dropped. I’ll still have to appear in court to sign some things and have it all entered into the record, but as of now, I’m not a prisoner anymore.
So why do I still feel trapped?
The apartment is too quiet. I didn’t realize how much noise Tyler made until the silence starts to feel like pressure behind my eyes.
I keep checking my phone, rereading his text again and again.I just need space. Give me time to figure things out. I love you.Maybe I’m overthinking it, but his message doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t sound like Tyler. Not the Tyler I held this morning, and made love to like the world was ending. Not the Tyler that kissed me like I was his last source of oxygen.
He didn’t even say goodbye. And it wasn’t just the silence, it was the look on his face. Like something inside him was breaking. If he knew the charges were being dropped, and he was leaving because he wanted to, why did he look like he was about to fall apart?
I stare at my phone like it's to blame for my turmoil. Like it could save me, or damn me. I type out a dozen responses and delete every one of them. If there's a chance he really does want his space, then I need to make this quick and to the point. Honest.
Me: I will wait for you for as long as it takes. I have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
I hit send just as someone knocks on the door. For half a second, my heart lurches stupidly.
But it’s Leslie. And he’s not alone. A uniformed officer stands beside him, holding a folder of documents, and behind them is another man in plain clothes carrying a sleek black tablet. Leslie introduces him as a technician from the monitoring agency.
"We just need to verify some documentation," the technician says, already flipping open the folder and tapping on his tablet. He’s brisk but professional, scrolling through whatever confirmation he needs.
"Court order’s in the system," the officer says. "Proof of dismissal came through twenty minutes ago."
The technician nods and crouches to examine the ankle monitor. He connects a short cord to the device and punches something into the tablet. The monitor emits a sharp beep.
"Okay," the tech says. "Almost done."
He types in another series of commands. A moment later, there's a click, and the cuff loosens around my ankle. The technician removes it, coils the cord, and slips everything back into a black case.
"You're good to go," he says with a nod. "Have a good day."
He walks out, leaving the air feeling a little lighter, but not by much.
The officer lingers for a second longer, flipping through the documents in his hands. He pulls out a duplicate form and passes it to Leslie. "Your copy," he says. "All signed and sealed. Congratulations."
He gives me a short, respectful nod. "Good luck, Mr. Casey."
Then he turns and follows the technician out the door.
“You’re officially free,” Leslie says. “Charges dropped. Case dismissed.” He shakes his head, in just as much disbelief as I'm feeling. "How did this happen?"
I know what he means. How did we go from staring down a fifty-year sentence, to walking away scot-free?
"There were stipulations," I say, not giving any details because I don't understand them myself. Leslie seems to understand that I must have lost something in return. He clasps a comforting arm on my shoulder.
"I'll check in on you later. Call me if you need anything."
Once I'm alone again, it takes several moments for the static in my head to clear. I look around the empty apartment, at all the little touches that Tyler has added. He somehow managed to choose things that are exactly my taste, but still have a bit of himself in them. Or maybe it's just that everything reminds me of him. His touch, his influence. It’s everywhere.
On the table near the door, the envelope Talon left me pulses like a beacon.
Less than half an hour later, I'm stepping out of the elevator at Valdin Law, Inc. The receptionist looks like she’s going to faint when she sees me. I try to give her an apologetic smile, like maybe that'll soften the sharp edges of how I must look—unsettled, menacing, and probably the last person she expected to see walking into this high-rise today.
"I'm just here to speak with Mr. Valdin," I say in a gentle voice, giving her my most charming smile. "Just to talk. No fists are flying this time, I swear."
