Page 142 of His To Erase
God, she probably sees right through me. Dogs always do.
“You wanna come with me?” I whisper. “I’m about to commit some kind of crime. Light breaking and entering, mild felony…emotional damage guaranteed. You in?”
B tilts her head, like she’s analyzing me with expert precision. Her tail gives a twitch, like she’s decided I’m not a threat, and she licks me again.
“Ride or die,” I mutter. “Knew I could count on you.”
I stand, and she follows like she’s always been mine as we move toward the desk.
“You know where he hides the good shit?” I mutter to her. “A folder labeled Girls Who Forget the Wrong Things and Open the Wrong Doors would really streamline this existential crisis.”
I yank the drawer the rest of the way open, bracing for… I don’t know. Knives? Fake passports? A laminated collection of restraining orders? Something that screams I’m dangerous, run faster. But no. Just paper. Boring.
Until I spot an envelope shoved in the back like someone tried to forget it—but couldn’t quite let it go. Which means it’s either a confession or porn.
I glance at Bern. “If I vanish under mysterious circumstances, please inform Sarah I was trying to mind my business and failed spectacularly.”
I pull it free and flip it open.
Not porn.
Not even close.
It’s a bunch of faded, old photos. The first one’s of a girl, who can’t be any older than eighteen, with dirty blonde hair, big eyes, and smiling like it still meant something. She’s standing in front of a run-down building—somewhere hot, maybe. Her cheeks are flushed. Her arms are wrapped around a dog, and there’s a man behind her, but he’s turned away. Something about the way he stands—arms crossed, half in shadow—makes my stomach twist.
I flip to the next photo, then another. She’s in all of them. Laughing. Playing. Asleep in a chair with a book drooped in her lap. One shows her with a scraped knee and someone’s sweatshirt wrapped around her shoulders like armor.
I pause on the last one, on the back, there’s a note in small, neat handwriting.
“L. 12th birthday.”
I freeze.
I don’t know who she is, but I know whoever this girl was… he’s keeping her for a reason.Maybe it’s his daughter? I don’t even know how old he is.
I stare down at the photo in my hand a second longer than I should. Long enough to feel something catch behind my ribs and stay there—sharp and stupid and real. My throat goes tight, and I swallow hard. This isn’t even about me. It’s not supposed to hurt, but it does. More than I’ll ever admit out loud. More than I’ll admit to myself if I can help it.
This isn’t the kind of darkness I was prepared to find.
I came looking for red flags, skeletons, and a reason to run. Not... this. Not whatever this ache is behind my chest that feels too close to grief.
I slide the photos back into the envelope, fingers clumsy now, like I’m suddenly aware of how much I shouldn’t be touching any of it. I shove it into the drawer like maybe that’ll undo the violation, and yet…part of me still wants to know why it’s here.
Who is she? Why does he have all of these?
I close the drawer slowly this time, careful not to make a sound, like being gentle will erase how careless I’ve been. When I turn, Bernadette’s flopped in the doorway like she’s been guarding me the whole time.
“Great,” I mutter. “Now I’ve emotionally trespassed and made myself sad. Love that for me.”
She pants quietly in response, her tail thudding once like she agrees but doesn’t judge.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who let me snoop.”
I scratch her head once, then pad barefoot back toward the stairs. Everything feels quieter now. Heavier. Like the whole house knows what I just did and is waiting for me to sit with it.
My adrenaline’s gone, along with the curiosity, too. By the time I get back to the guest room, I swear I can still feel the weight of that drawer in my palm, and I want to cry. I crawl back into bed and pull the blanket tight, trying to focus on the firelight leaking under the crack of the door.
I don’t know how long I lay there for—five minutes? Twenty?
