Chapter 11: Dangerous Dawn
The first thing Emily registered was the cold space beside her. The sheets there were rumpled, still holding the deep impression of his body, but the warmth was gone, leeched away by the slow creep of morning.
She kept her eyes closed for a long moment, breathing in the remnants of him on her pillow—whiskey, smoke, and that clean, sharp soap he used. Her body felt different. Used. Understood in a way that was both thrilling and unnerving. A faint, pleasant ache lingered between her thighs, a secret she carried alone in the brightening room.
Sunlight, thin and pale, cut through the gap in her curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing over her discarded shorts on the floor. She stretched, a slow, cat-like movement, and a small, private smile touched her lips. The world outside her door—the one with schedules and textbooks and a mother who saw her as a child—felt like a distant, blurry photograph.
Then the door flew open.
It wasn’t a knock. It was a violent invasion of wood against wall, the knob cracking into the plaster. Emily jolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs.
Her mother, Carol, stood in the doorway. She was still in her nurse’s scrubs from the night shift, her usually neat blonde hair escaping its ponytail in wisps. Her face was sheet-white, her eyes wide and glistening with a terror so raw it instantly vaporized the last traces of warmth in Emily’s body.
“Emily.”
That one word, her name, was strangled.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” Emily’s voice came out thin, reedy. Her mind immediately went to the worst, her grandmother, a car accident, something—
Carol stumbled into the room, her gaze sweeping over the tangled bed, the candles, the palpable intimacy in the air, but she didn’t seem to register any of it. She was clutching something small and white in her fist.
“Where is he?” Carol’s voice climbed, sharp with panic. “Emily, where is Jake?”
“I… I don’t know. He’s not in his room?” The lie tasted like ash. She could still feel the ghost of his arm around her waist.
“His room is empty. His bed hasn’t been slept in.” Carol’s breath hitched. She thrust her clenched hand forward, opening her fingers. On her palm lay a crumpled, torn hospital bracelet. The cheap paper was smudged, but the name was clear: BLACKWOOD, JAKE. A time stamp from two nights ago. “I found this in the kitchen trash. He was in the ER? He didn’t tell anyone. Why wouldn’t he tell us?”
Emily’s blood turned to ice. She remembered the faint, medicinal smell beneath the whiskey last night, the slight stiffness in his movements he’d passed off as nothing. The bridge he’d mentioned in a throwaway comment weeks ago, his spot for thinking when the world got too loud.
Before she could form a sentence, Carol’s phone rang, a shrill soundtrack to the panic. Carol fumbled it, nearly dropping it, and put it on speaker with trembling hands.
“Mrs. Carter? This is Officer Greeley again. We’ve got a unit at the scene now. The bike’s a total loss. Skid marks, guardrail damage… no sign of the rider at the scene. We’re expanding the search down the embankment toward the river. Do you have any other locations he might frequent? Any friends he’d go to?”
The river. The word hung in the lavender-scented air, cold and final.
Carol’s eyes locked with Emily’s, pleading, desperate. “I—I don’t know. He’s new here. Emily, do you know? Does he have any friends?”
The officer’s voice was tinny through the speaker. “Ma’am, the conditions last night were poor. Fog, wet roads. If he went over the rail… time is critical.”
Emily’s mouth was desert-dry. Her mind replayed the feel of his lips on her neck, his whispered ‘Go to sleep, Emily.’ A farewell she’d been too stupid, too blissed-out, to hear. He’d surprised her, he’d said. He didn’t do endings.
This wasn’t an ending. This was a disappearance.
“Emily!” Carol’s shriek broke through her paralysis. “Think!”
“The bridge,” Emily whispered, the words tearing from her throat. “He talks about the old railroad bridge out past Mill Road. He goes there to… think.” She couldn’t say ‘to be alone.’ It sounded too much like the truth.
Carol relayed the information, her voice cracking. She ended the call and sank onto the edge of Emily’s bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She stared at the bracelet in her hand. “Why was he in the hospital? What happened? Was he hurt? Did he say anything to you?”
Every question was a landmine. Emily shook her head, the movement stiff. “No. He didn’t say anything.” The truth, and yet a monumental lie. He’d said everything last night, without using any of these words.
Carol covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. “This is my fault. I pushed too hard for this blended family nonsense. He’s a stranger in this house. He must have been so… alone.”
The guilt in her mother’s voice was a physical weight in the room. Emily felt her own, different and sharper, twist in her gut. He hadn’t been alone last night. He’d been here, in her bed, his body speaking a language of connection even as he was planning his vanishing act. Or was it an accident? The line between a reckless ride and a deliberate drive off a foggy road felt impossibly thin.
She looked at her mother, really looked at her—the fear-etched lines around her eyes, the way her scrubs seemed to hang on her suddenly smaller frame—and knew she could never tell her what had happened in this room. The secret, which minutes ago had felt like a warm, stolen treasure, now felt like a cold, heavy stone lodged in her chest.
“They’ll find him, Mom,” Emily said, the words hollow. She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cool floor. The pleasant ache was still there, a cruel mockery. “I’m getting dressed. We should go. We should be there.”
Carol just nodded, numb, still staring at the bracelet.
As Emily pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, her movements robotic, she caught her own reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a wild tangle from his hands. There was a faint, bruising blush on her shoulder where his mouth had been. She looked like a girl who had been loved, and ruined, and left behind all in the same night.
The scent of him was still on her skin.
She didn’t wash it off.