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She could read a damn book.
The dogs’ playful barks echoed from outside, reminding her that she was not alone.
Drawing a deep breath, she took the book to her bedroom, opened the cover, and began to read. As the world Connelly had written unfolded before her, it was like walking through a mirror image of her own fears, magnified and darkened. It was gruesome, violent. It was terrifying... and intoxicating, like the heady rush of a roller coaster’s first drop. With each page, she was unwillingly pulled deeper into the town of Ravenshade.
Hours passed. Her wine glass stood empty. At some point, Connelly must have let the dogs into the bedroom and they curled up on either side of her, Rebel against her legs and Alfie under the blanket at her hip. At one point, she heard the sheriff in the living room talking to Connelly, but she ignored them. She was too engrossed to break away from the hold the book had on her. The tale was all-consuming, a window into her own struggles wrapped in a veil of fiction.
Connelly’s writing skill pulled every emotion from her with an intensity that left her raw and unsettled. She saw all the obvious pieces of herself in Vanessa Vale: the physical description, the stubbornness, the overwhelming fear that kept her trapped inside her home. But underneath it all ran a current of resilience. Despite the mounting threats, Vanessa never surrendered. She stumbled and fumbled—yes. She was terrified—yes. But she didn’t give up. And she prevailed.
When Veronica finally set the book down, her heart pounded and her eyes stung from staring at the pages for so long, but she couldn’t deny the truth. Connelly hadn’t betrayed her. He had used her painful past to craft a story of fear and triumph, and he’d dedicated it to her.
She flipped to the front of the book and read the dedication again:
For Vee, the strongest person I know.
Her fingers traced the words, and tears welled in her eyes. Connelly had taken something so private and intimate, something that had scarred her so deeply, and turned it into a story of hope and fortitude.
In the book’s protagonist, she didn’t see the broken woman she saw when she looked in the mirror. Instead, she saw a warrior. A survivor. A woman who refused to be broken by the darkness that threatened to engulf her.
Was that how Connelly saw her?
She climbed off the bed and found him asleep on the couch, his laptop open on his lap, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his face. His head was tipped back, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, the lines of worry that usually furrowed his brow smoothed out in sleep.
In an instant, she was thrown back to San Antonio and that day on the river when he fell asleep on his tube. She still had that picture of him, and looked at it more often than she cared to admit.
She hesitated for a moment, then quietly approached him. The living room felt empty and quiet now, the only sounds being the soft hum of the laptop fan and Connelly’s steady breathing.
She stopped by the couch, looking down at her childhood friend. The man who used her pain to create a horror masterpiece. A story that mirrored her own life and yet gave her a sense of hope she hadn’t felt in a long time. She wanted to hate him for it, for making her confront her demons through the pages of his book. But she couldn’t. Not anymore.
She reached out and gently closed his laptop, setting it aside on the coffee table. He stirred but didn’t wake up. She unfolded the quilt from the back of the couch and draped it over him.
Tomorrow.
She’d tell him what the book meant to her tomorrow.
She returned to her room, carrying The Shadows Within with her. But this time, she didn’t open it to read. She clutched it against her chest like a cherished amulet as she lay down in bed and snuggled the dogs.
* * *
Veronica bolted awake as the scream tore from her throat, and less than a heartbeat later, her bedroom door flew open. Connelly was there, gun in hand, sweeping the room like the professional badass he was.
Rebel growled, her hackles rising until she realized who it was. She settled at the foot of the bed again, but she was tense, alert, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Alfie poked up from under the blankets and yawned. Somehow, the sight of him calmed Veronica more than the tough, muscular dog sitting guard over her feet. She scooped him up and buried her face in his soft fur.
“Are you okay?” Connelly asked, his voice low and soothing even as he continued to scan the room for threats.
She gasped for air and looked around the room, her eyes darting from one corner to the next. It was dark and quiet, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her.
Connelly stepped closer, his gun still at the ready. “Don’t worry. You have nothing to be afraid of, Vee. I’ve got you. You’re safe here.”
She nodded and forced herself to draw deep, even breaths until her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a trot. “Okay,” she managed after a moment. “Okay,” she repeated and loosened her death grip on Alfie. She set him back down on the bed and watched as he snuggled under the blankets.
Connelly set the gun within easy reach on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head and hugged her knees to her chest. “It was just a nightmare.”
“I know how hard it can be to shake those off.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll be right out in the living room if you decide you want to talk.”
She leaned into his touch, grateful for the warmth and comfort he provided. “Stay with me. Please.” The words were out of her before she could think better of them.
