Page 29 of I’ll Find You

“Stay here,” he says, the command firm. “Ezra.” He doesn’t need to finish that thought because Ezra is already at my side. The words hit me wrong, and if anything, they increase the unease already building inside of me. It pushes at me higher and tighter until standing here feels impossible. So I don't.

“Fuck me,” I hear Ezra mutter under his breath as he follows me. By the time I reach him, the space between us closes faster than I can think. He's standing beside the open door, completely unmoving, already seeing enough.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice strained, afraid to know the answer, but needing it all the same. I'm barely holding it together with anxiety pounding in my chest. He doesn’t answer. The silence tells me everything he won’t. It’s bad.

I step closer anyway, my gaze slipping past him and into the car. The ground seems to fall out from under me when I see what happened. The interior is wrecked, but not in the careless way of a random break-in. There’s intention in it. Precision. My bag had been emptied, its contents scattered across the seats and floor, papers strewn, sifted through and then discarded. The glove compartment hangs open, its contents disturbed and left exposed. Nothing about this feels accidental. It all feels deliberate.

“Jesus,” Ezra mutters behind me, the words slipping out under his breath as I push past them, drawn forward by something I don’t fully understand but can’t seem to resist. I circle to the driver’s side, a sense of dread settling in before I even reach the door, as though some part of me already knows there is more waiting for me there. And there it is. Plain as day. The word has been carved into the inside of the door, cut deep into the surface in uneven, jagged strokes that speak more of intent than of impulsiveness. The anger and violence of it is unmistakable.

SLUT.

My world tilts beneath me in a slow, disorienting way that leaves me unsteady on my feet. My body sways slightly as a strange weightlessness comes over me, leaving me suspended in a moment that feels both distant and unbearably close because it happened right under our noses.

“I didn’t do anything,” I manage, the words slipping out before I can stop them, my voice catching against the pressure tightening around my throat. Each breath becomes harder to draw, turning shallow and uneven. It’s as though my body has forgotten how to regulate itself, leaving me grasping for air that never seems to come in deeply enough.

“Hey,” Alex says, his voice low and controlled. It carries a weight to it I can’t quite anchor myself to, but wish I could. “Don’t look at it.” He moves my head away. I didn’t know I was still staring.

It remains burned into my memory, which makes it impossible to escape.

“Give me your keys, baby,” he says, softer now, closer. I don’t think about it or question it. I simply place them in his hand, my movements distant and automatic. It’s as though I’ve stepped outside myself and am watching everything unfold from somewhere that is just beyond reach.

“Who do you think did this?” Ezra asks, all previous humor from tonight gone, replaced by something more serious. I don’t answer right away, though the thought is already there, circling, pressing against the edges of my mind in a way that I can’t ignore. All logic indicates that it’s him. Could it have been him?

“Maxwell,” Alex says, giving voice to what I haven’t said aloud.

I nod slowly, though uncertainty still remains. It feels possible, sure. More than possible, given everything that has happened and the scene he made on campus today. The messages and the calls all paint a picture I can’t easily dismiss. Still, there’s a part of me that hesitates assuming it’s him, and that questions whether he would really go this far. My stomach twists. Alex’s body goes rigid beside me; there’s no confusion or hesitation on his part. He radiates a controlled fury that fills the space between us in a protective way, making me worry for an entirely different reason. If he is angry enough to do this, then what’s to say Maxwell won’t escalate something further?

I can’t blame him. I’m furious, too. Not just the violation, but what it cost me. It’s my car. My only mode of transportation. To me, it’s not just metal and glass. It’s everything I’ve managed to hold together on my own. The first purchase I made for myself. It shows every dollar stretched thin, every sacrifice I made just to keep moving forward to reach my goal. I don’t have the luxury of replacing things easily, and certainly not without knowing that something else has to give. And now it’s been reduced to this, torn through like it doesn’t matter.

“Get in my car,” he says, his words leaving no room for argument.

“Alex,” I begin, the protest forming out of instinct more than conviction.

“Now, Rose.”

There’s something in his tone that stops every instinct to argue. It's commanding, making resistance feel pointless. I’ve always had to take on these challenges and hardships. It feels nice to let someone else share the burden and to be cared for, though I flinch at the command. I won’t argue again. His eyes are cold, and his expression appears controlled, but the tension radiating from him tells me his repressed fury is just waiting for the slightest thing to break through.

Alex opens the passenger door for me with precise, deliberate movements. Before I step in, I take one last look at my car. It doesn’t matter because the door is closed and nothing looks out of order from here. The word is still there when I close my eyes. It’s etched into my mind with the same jaded force it was used to carve into the door. It’s impossible to forget, and I can’t ignore this sign. That neon flashing sign warning that this may get worse.

When police arrive, we give them a careful account of what happened, sticking to the facts. Maxwell’s name still at the edge of the conversation, but without proof, it remains nothing more than suspicion, and there’s nothing concrete we can give them.

“Do you know anyone who would do this?” the officer asks, looking at me like I might be able to solve this vandalism crime for him. It’s as if he can read my mind. The glance I give Alex lets him know that I don’t want to name anyone. His jaw tics in frustration, but he keeps his mouth shut, lips held tight in a thin line.

“No,” I answer, looking at Alex, and hoping he won’t say a word. He doesn’t, but it’s clear he doesn't like my stance. The officer watches the exchange, placing his notepad in his pocket. I already know this will yield no results, and he’s basically given up.

“Well, if you think of anything else that could be helpful,” he hands me a card with his number on it, “please reach out. I’m sorry this happened to you.” He nods, walks back to his car, and leaves.

We secure what’s left of the car as best we can, the damage hidden but not undone, and Ezra offers to come back for it later, his tone even as his eyes remain sharp and watchful, looking out for any other threats we may have overlooked.

When we finally pull away, I keep my focus on the road, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. I insisted on driving us back to the townhouse, needing something I could control. Alex didn’t argue, but the slight tightening of his jaw told me everything he didn’t say. Darkness settles around us as the outside world slips past. Somewhere in the silence, Alex’s hand finds mine, and he gives it one soft squeeze before his fingers close around it with a firm pressure that tells me he’s there, and that I’m not alone in this. But even then, with his hand in mine, the unease creeping in refuses to subside. It only grows with every passing mile.

Alex reaches for the radio, the haunting lyrics of Bad Omens, “Specter,” fill the car, and I shiver at the words. Alex feels the tremor in my hand and must interpret it as me being cold. He turns up the heat and puts the heated steering wheel on. Little does he know that it’s the lyrics of this song that remind me that maybe I’ll never be able to give him what he needs. Something about this doesn’t feel impulsive, but calculated in a way that burrows beneath my skin, leaving me raw and exposed in a way that I can’t explain. It's as though something spectral reached in and disturbed more than the surface, undoing every fragile piece of peace I'd only just found.

By the time we pull into the townhouse, exhaustion has set in so deeply it feels physical, making my bones heavier than they should be with every movement. The weight of the day remains, surrounding me in annoyance, hurt, anger, something dangerously close to comfort where Alex is concerned, and all of it blends until I can no longer separate one emotion from the other.

As we step inside, that weight intensifies, making me feel wobbly on my feet, my body suddenly too aware of how little energy I have left to hold myself together. My gaze drifts toward the sofa, and the evidence of where Alex has been sleeping. The realization comes quickly, landing its intended punch. There’s only one bed. He’s been giving it up since I moved in, choosing discomfort without ever making it known, and now, with Ezra here, there’s nowhere left for him to go.

As if sensing the change in my thoughts, Ezra drops onto the couch without hesitation, stretching out and claiming it. His shoes are still on, completely at ease.