Page 86 of Stealing Chances

My jaw worked and my head slanted because, even though I knew these notes were a major piece of whatever I was missing, I knew it wasn’t everything. I knew it wasn’tit, as Brian was saying.

Holding the note for a second longer, I finally began working it open as Brian reached for one of the others to do the same. My heart feeling like it was in my goddamn throat as I worried over what I would find on the pages.

By the time we had them all open and facing up on my desk, that dread in my stomach felt like it was devouring me.

“Fuck me, Chach,” Brian muttered, voice dripping with worry and uncertainty. “Does this mean...no. Right?”

I tore my eyes from the papers and focused on him, unable to say the words.

Unable to make sense of anything anymore.

Ididn’t know what to do.

Was I supposed to call the police, or was this not one of those situations? Was I just overthinking this?

I glanced around for probably the third time since I’d walked up to our porch, unable to make myself get closer to our front door than where I stood, a good six feet away.

But it was just another morning on our street. The usual cars in the driveways and on the street. The same moms with their strollers out for a morning walk.

And one of Chase’s old sketchbooks propped up against our front door.

I glanced at my phone, unsure of what to do when all I wanted was to call Chase. Beg him to get home in any way possible, but I’d just left him at the shop not even fifteen minutes before.

He needed to be there. He needed to see what memories might resurface from that place.

I couldn’t pull him away from that just because I was afraid of a book.

Besides, for all I knew, one of his friends or someone in his family could’ve found it and dropped it off while we were gone. I stared at the leather cover as I slowly stepped closer, sure from the color and wear of it that it was one of his old ones.

With a shaky breath, I dropped to a crouch and reached out. Hand trembling as I fingered the cover, carefully working the sketchbook open and realizing when my lungs began screaming that I was holding my breath.

But with each page that only revealed more of Chase’s clear style, I felt my body relaxing. The vice on my chest easing.

Grabbing the entire book in my hands, I fanned through the pages, my blood running cold when I saw the bold words and lines marking up so many of the pages I hadn’t made it to.

Starting back at the beginning, I quickly moved through each page until I found the first that had been ruined by a permanent marker.

“She burned,” I whispered the words out loud, my brow furrowing as I read them again and again before looking at the sketch that had been crossed out.

It was my lilies.

Something Chase sketched often—making small changes and additions each time, depending on his mood that day.

Burned. Oh my God.

The canvas. The canvas...they’d burned my face.

“What the fuck?” I breathed as I moved through another few pages of sketches and came to a stop at the next bold words. My gaze bouncing between the wordssomeone elseand the beautiful, elaborate design Chase had made up—my name hidden within.

The next was a furiously crossed out, partially completed sketch of my face beside the wordsto be with you.

On and on it went until I’d reached the end of the book.

By the time I did, I was shaking. With fear or rage or shock, I wasn’t sure. But I was trembling as I stared at the back cover of the sketchbook.

Just as I was pushing to stand, a thought hit me, and I fell to the porch instead. Sitting as I flipped back to the beginning and began the slow process of going through the entire book.

Studying each page. Each crossed-out sketch. Taking pictures when needed and typing the broken message into a note on my phone so I had it all laid out.

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