Page 89 of Ghosted

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

She laughs once, empty and exhausted. “Maybe don’t turn what happened to me into your little revenge fantasy.”

That shuts me up, my hands curling into fists as my sides.

“I’m not a reason,” she says. “I’m not a prize or some line he crossed that gives you permission to go full murderous monster and call it protection.”

The worst part is, I want to argue.

I want to tell her she is a reason. The reason. The only fucking thing I can see clearly right now.

But I don’t, because it would prove her point.

“You need to leave,” she says.

“No.”

“Jagger.”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Too bad,” I drag a hand over my mouth, feeling dried blood pull against my knuckles. “Your lock is shit.”

She rolls her eyes, and starts to close the door, and every part of me moves forward on instinct.

Barely, but enough that she stops and so do I.

There’s the line.

Thin as thread and somehow stronger than every fucked-up thing inside me telling me to push through.

I step back.

It costs me more than it should.

“I’m going to find him,” I say. “I’m going to hurt him.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I don’t think hurting him is going to be enough for you.”

I don’t answer.

It won’t be.

She sees the truth anyway and closes the door.

The lock turns.

I stand there staring at the wood while the fight finally catches up with my body. Jaw. Ribs. Shoulder. Knuckles. Everything hurts, and none of it matters.

I should leave.

Instead, I slide down the wall across from her door and sit on the floor, bloody hands hanging between my knees, head tipped back against peeling paint.