Page 153 of A Love That Broke Us
He jumps, setting his phone face down on the counter, like he doesn’t want me to see it.
My brows knit together. “Who were you talking to?” I take a step closer.
“Nobody,” he mutters.
It’s dark, but I can tell just by the way he’s standing that he’s high.
“You were talking to someone.” I snatch his phone off the counter. “Open it,” I say firmly. There is no room to argue.
He swipes up, unlocking it with Face ID. Gripping it tight, I pull up his call history. The last call he made was hours ago, when he was still at work.
“Jensen.” My voice rises. “Who were you talking to?” I don’t mean to be confrontational, but—my God, he owes me an explanation.
He lets out a short laugh—like it just dawned on him. “Oh, that… it was Amber’s sister. She was right over there.” He points toward the living room.
“What?” I ask, softly. “What are you talking about?”
“Amber’s sister,” he repeats. “She was here. She was talking to me.” His voice shifts—uncertain now—like he’s afraid. His browfurrows, like he’s just now realizing that what he’s saying doesn’t make any sense.
You know that feeling when you watch your first scary movie—when chills race up your spine and creep across your skin?
That’s what’s happening to me now.
“Jensen,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “There’s no one there. Amber’s sister died years ago. She couldn’t have been here.”
“No.” He shakes his head hard. “No, you’re wrong. She was right there! Right there!” he shouts, pointing wildly. The sudden outburst sends a fresh surge of fear through me.
I stare at the dark, empty living room, squinting—like if I look long enough, I’ll see the ghost he swears he saw.
It’s chilling.
“Okay,” I say gently. “She was there.”
He nods, relief breaking across his face. “Okay. You saw her, too. That’s good.”
“Let’s just get to bed, okay?” I loop my arm through his. His skin is clammy, sticking to mine. “Come on, babe. Let’s go. This way.”
My chest swells with heartache, and a tear slips down my cheek as I hear my own voice. It’s the same voice I used back when I was a CNA in the old folks’ home—the one I used with Alzheimer’s patients when they were lost or confused.
And it cuts like a dagger to my core.
“I just wanna lie down,” he murmurs.
“Okay, babe. Let’s go lie down.”
I help him into bed and slide in beside him, my thoughts racing.
What is he on?
This isdifferent.
What did he do? Where was he?
Minutes later, he’s out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom. I hear drawers and cupboards slamming shut and more crashing sounds.
“Fuck!”
I sit up fast. “What are you doing?”
