Her breath catches.
“Miles was a good person,” her voice breaks. “He helped me when they drowned me. He saved me. He gave me CPR. Now he’s dead. I had to leave him. Just like Mila.”
Her body finally folds inward, grief crashing through what little strength she has left.
I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly. Krueger lies down beside the bed, pressing his body against the frame. Luna creeps closer and tucks herself near her hip, close enough to touch.
I stay there, speechless, knowing there is nothing I can say that will touch the weight of what she survived.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”
“I’m not pretending,” she replies, her voice quiet. “I just don’t know how to feel anything yet.”
“That’s okay.”
Her hand lifts, hesitant, barely reaching. The contact is light, uncertain, but it lands hard anyway.
I slowly shift closer and pull her into my arms, like one wrong move could send her shattering. She doesn't pull back this time. She folds into me instead,her face pressing into my chest. A sound slips out of her, so small it almost isn't there. Not quite a sob. More like grief catching on the way out and losing its nerve.
I hold her tighter.
I kiss the top of her head and let the words stay where they belong, pressed into her hair instead of spoken aloud.
I would've died to keep her from this. I would've taken every second of it if it meant she didn't have to. Because watching her like this, hollowed out and trying to relearn her own body, carrying something I can't fix, feels unbearable in a way violence never has.
It feels like failing all over again.
I couldn't save Natalie. I couldn't save Luke. I couldn't save our baby. Each loss stacks on top of the last, a record of every moment I arrive too late or not at all. Now I'm here, holding Brooke, trying to keep what is left of her intact, and it still feels like I'm failing.
I close my eyes, my jaw clenched, as her breath slows against my chest.
Pieces of both of us died while we were apart.
And I don't know if we will ever get them back.
Chapter 32
Brooke
Iwake to a dark, silent bedroom.
The space beside me is empty.
For a moment I stay still, my hand slides across the sheets where Seth should be. My chest tightens before my thoughts fully catch up.
It has been two weeks since I escaped the manor.
Two weeks of broken sleep and waking up disoriented, my hands clenched and my pulse racing before I remember where I am. It always takes a few seconds to recognize the room, the house, the quiet around me. I remind myself that I'm not in that basement. I'm not in that Manor.
My body still hurts. Some of it comes from injuries that are healing. The rest comes from memory.
Seth only leaves the bed this late when the panic gets to him.
He tells me he is checking the locks, the cameras, and the perimeter around the property. He probably is doing those things. But that is not the real reason he gets up.
He gets up because lying beside me makes him feel useless.
He thinks he is failing me.
