Page 153 of Fault Lines
After a while, the apartment got very quiet. I heard the soft snick of the bedroom door, the shuffle of Nate’s feet as he paced on the other side. He didn’t come out. He didn’t say a word.
I lay there, head cradled in my hands, and watched the blood drip from my fingers onto the tile. I tried to think of what to do next, who to call, how to move at all. But the only thing I could manage was to breathe, in and out, in and out, and hope that maybe, if I waited long enough, it would all stop hurting.
It didn’t.
∞∞∞
Cam
I used to believe there was no such thing as true emergency, not unless blood was spurting or bones poked through skin. That was what my dad taught me, with his ice-cold hands and his voice like the inside of a mausoleum. “Never panic,” he had said. “The real disasters aren’t loud—they’re silent, they sneak up, and by the time you notice it’s already too late.”
When the call came through, I almost didn’t answer. It was after midnight and I’d spent the last hour moving around the house like an inmate, counting the seconds until I could justify another Ambien. The number wasn’t saved in my contacts, but the city prefix made my heart thump like a boxer’s fist. I answered, expecting a wrong number, maybe a robocall.
But the noise on the line—static, then a sob, then a man’s voice screaming—I recognized both, and it made me colder than death.
I heard Livi’s breathing first, ragged and wet, and then Nate’s voice, high and broken, “You never fucking loved me!” and a sound like something shattering against tile.
For a second, I just listened, trying to break it down, but all I got was chaos: Livi gasping, crying, and Nate yelling, the line hot with violence.
Then a hollow thud, a scream that wasn’t quite hers, and silence.
I snapped out of it and called back. No answer.
I called again. The line picked up, but there was only muffled noise—like someone had thrown the phone across the room, or stepped on it. Then, a single sharp inhale, and a click.
I didn’t even put on shoes. I grabbed my keys and was out the door before the rest of me caught up. In the car, I tried to call her again, but it went straight to voicemail. I texted Rachel, then Jackson, but the words were just: Call me. Now.
The streets were empty, washed in orange streetlight and the shine of last night’s rain. I drove like I was racing a bomb, running every red, fingers drumming the wheel, mind already flipping through the worst-case scenarios. I knew where she was. Of course I did. When you’ve loved someone long enough, you always know where to find them, even when they wish you wouldn’t.
Nate’s building was only a ten-minute drive, but it felt longer. The parking lot was empty except for a single old sedan, headlights on, engine running. I recognized it—Nate’s car. He wasn’t there, but I saw the smudge of his handprints on the hood.
I took the stairs three at a time, my chest burning. The hallway on the third floor reeked of disinfectant and despair. I pounded on 302, and when no one answered, I kicked it. The door wasn’t locked.
Inside, the apartment was a ruin. Books everywhere, some ripped in half, the couch overturned, the TV face down on the rug. In the kitchen, glass littered the tile and a patch of red smeared across the linoleum. At first, I thought it was wine.
Then I saw her.
She was slumped against the lower cabinets, knees tucked to her chest, one hand clamped to her head. Blood pooled under her ear, bright and dark, running in rivulets down her jaw. Her eyes fluttered, but she was awake, somehow.
“Jesus, Livi—” I dropped to my knees. My hands hovered, afraid to touch her, afraid to make it worse. “Can you hear me?”
She tried to smile. “Hey,” she whispered, then coughed, a raw and rattling sound.
“Don’t move.” I looked for a towel, a shirt, anything to press to her head, but there was only broken glass and the stench of liquor. I took off my own shirt, wadded it against her scalp, and tried to keep the pressure steady.
“Where’s Nate?” I asked, barely able to say his name.
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Bathroom, maybe.”
“Stay with me,” I said, even as I fumbled for my phone to call 911.
But before I could, Nate stumbled into the kitchen. His face was ruined—eyes swollen, nose leaking blood, a split lip that looked weeks old but was probably fresh. He saw us, and for a second he just stood there, blinking. Then he lunged at me.
I caught him with one hand, pushed him back, and he hit the counter with a sick thump.
“She’s mine,” he said, voice muffled by blood and teeth.
“No,” I said. “She’s done with you.”
