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whatsnewalycat · 10 months

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 15

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 15: The Widow

Chapter Summary: Contemplation.

Word Count: 7.6k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, suicidal thoughts and planning, intrusive thoughts, grief, swearing, alcohol use, uncertainty, parker, lotta yearning and self-reflection, angst, paranormal/spooky elements, food

Notes: Chapter title from “The Widow" by The Mars Volta. This is the peak of angst in this story, I promise. Pleaaaaaase be mindful of the trigger warnings above. Big big thanks to @frannyzooey for proofreading 🖤✨ OK THANKS FOR READING YALL LOVE U SORRY IF ITS A BUMMER.

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As far back as you can remember, you hated the dark.

The uncertainty of what it contained would keep you up for hours in your childhood bedroom.

Your mind ran rampant, imagining all kinds of insidious creatures lurking in the shadows. Beneath your bed, in the corners, behind your closet door, outside your window. Watching, waiting for you to fall asleep.

At some point you started sleeping with the lights on. Your parents got you a nightlight in an attempt to curtail this behavior, but it wasn’t enough. There were still shadows. You were still cloaked in darkness with the monsters. All this did was begin a new ritual, where you waited until they went to bed before turning on the lights.

One night, after you heard your parents’ bedroom door click shut, you scurried over to the light switch and flipped it up. The overhead light came to life, flooding the room in safety. Relief.

By the time you crawled back into bed, your dad opened the door and peeked into the room. He looked between you and the overhead light, sighing, “Louella, we talked about this.”

“Don’t turn the light off.”

“Why not?”

Even then it felt silly. The answer stuck to the inside of your throat, hot and buzzing. Instead of letting it out, you burrowed beneath the covers and curled up into yourself.

The floorboards creaked as your dad made his way across the room. He sat on the edge of your mattress and rubbed your back, comforting you.

“Sweet pea,” he cooed, peeling back your Lion King comforter to expose your face, “It’s not good for you to sleep with the lights on all the time.”

At this, you pouted at your blanket, fiddling with the frayed edges.

“The dark is scary, isn’t it?”

You nodded.

“What’s so scary about it?”

You shrugged.

He hummed in acknowledgment, then glanced around the room, “I’ll let you in on a secret. Most everyone is afraid of the dark at some point or another. You know why?”

Another shrug.

“In the light, we have certainty. We can look over in that corner and see with our own eyes there’s no boogeyman there. It’s just a corner. Done deal. The dark… that’s trickier, isn’t it?”

You nodded, trying to decide whether or not to tell him about the monsters you believed would manifest in the black abyss and swallow you whole.

“You’re safe here, though. I promise. It’s just you in here. There’s nothing hiding in the dark. The corner is just a corner. All that’s under your bed is dust. In your closet, it’s just clothes.”

“Can you check?”

He chuckled, but granted your request, lowering himself to the ground to peek under your bed, telling you, “Nothing under here,” then climbed to his feet and strode over to your closet, pulling the door wide open so you could see the proof yourself.

“All clear,” he said as he closed it and returned to your bedside, “Does that help?”

You nodded, casting your gaze down to your lap. A lingering feeling of dread still sat heavy in your stomach. His gaze stayed trained on you, obviously unconvinced.

Eventually you asked, “But what if we just don’t see it now? What if it sneaks?”

Your voice felt tiny, meek.

His shoulders deflated with a sigh. He scooted closer and petted your hair, holding eye contact when he countered, “Your brain is trickier than the dark ever will be. It makes you see things that aren’t there. Unless you believe it’s safe, you’ll never be able to rest.”

He was right, you suppose.

Rest only really found you when you trusted the lights’ promise that nothing would hurt you when it vanished. Even when the light broke its promise. Even when your dad went to the ER and returned in a box.

You tried to believe that your family would live on without him. That he would still somehow keep you safe.

But he didn’t.

Neither did your mother.

Your mother cut the power and made you fend for yourself.

You learned that the only way to ensure nothing would hurt you was to make sure the room was vacant before deadbolting the door. To lock the windows and draw the blinds. You sharpened your teeth into fangs. You developed night vision and grew claws, and you hid so well you thought nothing could find you.

Sure, it was dark.

But the abyss had only one occupant, you knew that as fact.

Sure, your skin ached to feel the sunlight.

But you were safe.

You’re not sure when it happened, but sooner or later, you swore you could see shapes shifting in the pitch black. When you laid in bed at night, you could hear something in the walls. The faint, dry scratch of nails on plaster.

It sneaks.

The thing became clearer over time. Bloated, purpled skin. Limbs that popped and groaned when it crept around just beyond your reach. It carried the stench of rot, putrid and sulphuric.

Deep down in your guts, you understood the horrible truth.

It was you.

A part of you, anyway. Something that lived and died inside you, stillborn into the darkness just to haunt you.

Then there was Ethan.

Brash and charming, he took a sledgehammer to your walls and yanked you from your hiding place. Sunshine poured into the dark, dank room, soaking you in brightness.

At first you were terrified.

It overwhelmed your senses.

Your eyes, having long forgotten how to operate in the light, burned in reaction. You clamped them closed for fear of going blind. It felt so warm you thought you might melt. Ethan’s honeyed words seemed like loudspeakers compared to the quiet echo of your breathing. To the faint, hoarse whisper of your monster.

It took some time to acclimate to this long-forgotten brightness. But once you did, it felt incredible. You couldn’t believe you hid from it for so long.

Together, you understood that with light, comes shadows. He had a monster who crept after nightfall, too. Sometimes you’d wake to the soft caress of its nails on your cheek, to his sour, putrid breath gurgling in your ear, “I will be the death of you,” like a promise.

You came to trust its keeper, though. You believed it wouldn’t tear you apart, like yours wouldn’t Ethan.

That is the promise of love, after all, isn’t it?

To cherish one’s light so much that you’ll endure their dark? To love even the most haunted, grotesque parts of someone? Even their monsters? Even their ghosts?

To trust that you can rest your weary bones in the dark without it destroying you?

You believed this for so long. Bright years filled with joy and laughter and love, where you felt alive and trusted him. In those years, you forgot a very important fact:

It sneaks.

The fireplace lets out a sharp POP, drawing your attention away from the pitch black window.

A smoldering log at the bottom of the hearth collapses. The fire shifts, birthing fresh flames that breathe hot against your cheeks.

You pull the quilt snug around your supine body and huddle deeper into the couch, into the warmth of your body heat.

When you called your mother-in-law yesterday and explained what was happening, that you needed a place to stay for a few days while you figure out what to do, she graciously granted your request to use their cabin out in the Sierra Nevada foothills, but warned you the place was winterized and had no central heating.

“I don’t know what condition it’s in, nobody’s been out there since August. There’s quite a bit of firewood by the fireplace and out by the woodshed, use as much as you need. Electricity is on, but no internet and cell service is shoddy. You’ll need to get the water going, too—you know, why don’t you give me or Adam a call once you’re out there, we can walk you through it.”

“Is there a landline? I don’t have my phone.”

“Sure is.”

“Ok, I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Stop and get some groceries in town, too, there’s that grocery store—”

“Yeah, I remember,” you interrupted, eyes darting to the departures board, “I have to go, my bus is gonna be here soon. Thank you so much, Sarah.”

You could feel it coming within one second of the quiet hesitation that followed.

“Lou, I just want to make sure…”

Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

“Are you ok, honey?”

Fuck.

Your face crumbled. Emotion clogged your throat. Tingles worked up your chest, behind your eyes, and you squeezed them shut to suffocate the tears.

“Yeah,” you managed to tell her, your voice wavering with bullshit, “I just, um… I just need a few days. To get myself together, you know.”

“Alright. Well, will you call me when you get there?”

“Yep,” you sniffled, “Talk to you then, bye.”

Before she could respond, you returned the receiver to its cradle, ending the call, then took a moment to gather yourself before picking your toppled-over suitcase up off the ground and finding your bus.

The ride to Fresno was long. You spent most of it staring out the window, not really looking at anything in particular, just lost in your noisy head.

At the Fresno Bus Station, you talked to three different cab drivers before finding one who agreed to bring you all the way out here.

He made a few attempts at small talk, asking how your day was going and if you were on vacation and so on, but quickly picked up on your not-so-chatty vibes and let the cab go quiet.

As he drove on, palm trees were replaced by threadbare ash trees, soon joined by evergreens. The hills became steeper. Swathes of rock broke through the earth’s soft surface, more and more with each mile.

You asked him to stop in the town closest to your in-laws’ cabin. He kept the meter running while you bought a meager supply of groceries, figuring you only needed a few days worth, if that.

Then the yellow taxi cab then drove deep into the forest, turning off on a low-maintenance dirt road that made the car jostle and rumble.

When you came around a curve, and the mailbox labeled FRIEDMAN came into view, you instructed him to drop you off there.

“Are you sure? I can take you down the driveway, no problem,” he insisted.

You could have explained that the gravel driveway was in poor condition and you didn’t want him to break down or something. Imagine that. Drive a girl to the middle of a goddamn forest and wind up getting stuck out there. What a fucking nightmare. For both of you, really.

“I’m sure,” you said, flashing him a weak smile as you handed him the remaining money from your wallet, “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he looked down at the bundle of cash, but he took it, giving you a nod of thanks.

“Just, um…” you bit the inside of your cheek and shrugged, looping plastic grocery bags around your wrists, “If anyone comes around asking if you saw me, could you maybe… maybe you could say no?”

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded again, studying you for a moment before turning to open his door, “Let me get your bag for you.”

He pulled your shitty suitcase from the trunk and handed it to you. Before returning to the driver’s seat to begin his voyage home, he paused for a few seconds, then looked at you.

“Excuse me for asking, ma’am, but are you… well, are you… safe? Do you need me to contact anyone?”

“No.”

The word came out sharp and final. It felt harsh leaving your lips, so you added, “I mean, you don’t need to contact anyone. I am, uhhh… cool as a cucumber. Safe… as a lock. Thanks, though.”

You tried your hardest to give him a reassuring smile. He didn’t look like he bought it, but got in his taxi and left.

From here, you followed the driveway into a tunnel carved out from the trees.

The air was crisp and clear and everything seemed quiet except for the sound of you huffing and puffing down the path, leaves crunching under your feet, plastic bags rustling, your suitcase flopping around behind you like a defiant animal on a leash, fighting against each step.

Fucking exhausting.

About halfway, you spotted a flat boulder peeking out from the earth a few strides into the forest. You dropped your suitcase, shaking the plastic bags from your wrists, and blundered through the trees towards it. Your rubber legs ached with relief when you sat down criss-cross applesauce on the cool stone. Catching your breath, you leaned back and tilted your face up towards the canopy. A breeze rattled through the pines and ashes and cooled your cheeks.

You spent some time here, stretched out on the boulder, admiring the contrast of the dark, rheumatic branches stretched out towards the powder-blue sky. When your labored breathing calmed, the quiet sounds of the forest started to come into focus. Leaves rustling. Birds warbling. The whistle of wind.

It felt nice.

Peaceful.

Eventually, you heaved yourself to your feet and resumed your journey. You walked and walked, legs and wrists and arms aching, body and mind sapped of energy, until the tree line opened up into a clearing.

The cabin came into view, and a bone-deep sense of nostalgia struck you.

You remembered the first time Ethan brought you here, the summer after you started dating. Everything seemed to pulse with life. The trees, glowing green with leaves. The roaring river in the background. Ethan. The future, in general.

What’s the word for the kind of nostalgia that guts you? The kind that feels like a 30-pound weight in your stomach? The kind that shreds your heart to pieces in your chest?

That’s exactly what you felt when you saw the cabin.

It looked cold. Dead.

The inside felt no different. Everything was dark. Cool, still air bit your cheeks. Canvas was draped over all the furniture. It smelled of dust and damp and better times.

You dropped your belongings to the entryway floor, collapsing in a heap among them, then cried your eyes dry.

Once you gathered yourself, you found the phone to call Sarah.

She walked you through the ins-and-outs of making the cabin habitable. How to turn the water back on and get the fireplace going. Gave you permission to use whatever you want or need… which, so far, is just some firewood, a quilt from the cedar linen closet, and this couch.

You blink your bleary eyes a few times, before looking back to the window. The world outside has lightened. Frosted trees stand out in the rich, Neptunian veil of morning, every branch appearing lacy and crystalline, important and beautiful.

Have I slept? Or did I sit here all night, staring into the abyss?

“Fuck it,” you sigh to yourself as you sit upright, “Might as well make some coffee.”

Ding

The elevator doors slide open.

Dieter follows Parker onto the fifth floor hallway of your apartment building.

As he walks down the familiar hallway like he has so many times before, a guttural, foreboding feeling builds in his veins.

The sensation is unbelievably heavy, but hollow. Knight’s armor. A church bell. The barrel of a gun.

It reminds Dieter of the first time he came here, when he sensed Ethan’s presence on the other side of that door.

“Hopefully the landlord didn’t change the locks,” Parker says as he flips through his keychain, isolating one labeled LOU. The key slides in without protest. Parker pushes the door open and enters the apartment, Dieter hot on his heels.

When Parker flips the light on, the state of your apartment makes Dieter’s stomach drop.

Ransacked is the first word that comes to mind.

Every drawer and cupboard in your kitchen sits ajar, their contents disorganized or spread across the countertop. The couch and chair cushions are all discombobulated. Dirt tracks dried into the white carpet trace the heavy flow of boots that moved in and out of the apartment. It looks like every surface of the place has been perverted.

Dieter crouches down to set an overturned cubby upright, shoving a pile of your hats and scarves and gloves back into their rightful place, muttering, “Fucking pigs.”

A leopard print pattern catches his eye, and he plucks out a scarf, draping it around his neck before returning the container to its home.

“Pigs is right,” Parker snorts, slamming closed cupboards and drawers, “This place is a fuckin’ stye. I’m glad she’s not here to see this.”

Dieter rubs the soft fabric between his fingers and brings it to his nose, inhaling your scent. A freshly-baked smell that prods his tender heart. He stands and starts towards the kitchen, but freezes when he notices the door to Ethan’s room is open. His eyes flick from Parker, totally preoccupied with reassembling the kitchen, then back to the doorway.

Curiosity gnaws at his insides.

He approaches it, trying to act casual despite his pounding heart. At the threshold, he pauses to peak inside, not entirely surprised to see the room exactly as he pictured it.

Well, mostly, anyway.

No file cabinet or deep freezer, but open spaces where he thought they’d be. Taken as evidence, probably. Empty file folders are strewn across the desk. But the navy blue walls, the hardwood floor, the mirrors… all there.

That horrible, palpable emptiness, like loss on loss on loss… that’s there, too.

He glances over his shoulder at Parker, still distracted, then looks back into the room. When he steps through the doorway, a rush of adrenaline spikes his pulse.

Why are you here?

Dieter cautiously wanders over to the desk and starts picking up the empty file folders, halting when he finds a sketchpad beneath one.

He flips through the book of abstract black-ink illustrations. Some of them scribbles, some exquisite, some in-between. All of them saturated with emotion. Hopelessness. Guilt. Anger. Grief. Frustration. Every time he turns a page, a new sensation strikes him. Shame. Resentment. Suspicion. A whole dictionary of dark emotions.

Scattered throughout, though, he finds a few that feel… not lighter, per se, but different. They feature negative space and soft curves. Clean lines and chaos. Love.

They’re you.

Of course they’re you, love. Of course you were his light in the darkness. A brightness carved out of soot and rot.

A fond smile creeps across his lips.

For reasons he can’t quite explain, Dieter looks to one of the mirrors and asks, “Can I take this with me? To give to her?”

Yeah, sure.

“Thanks,” he nods and tucks the book into his coat pocket, glancing over his shoulder before quietly inquiring, “Any chance you know where she is?”

Not here.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter thinks. He jumps a little when he hears the response crystal clear in his head.

Well then why the fuck’re you here? You’re wasting time.

“Me? What about you? Didn’t you move on from this place?”

After this, Ethan goes quiet.

Dieter shrugs and looks away from the mirror to study the framed photos on the wall. Photos of Ethan with, who Dieter assumes are, his kids. None of them recent. The vast majority of the pictures feature you.

You and Ethan kissing on your wedding day. The two of you posing somewhere with mountains in the background, drinking on a beach, dancing at a party. Each one depicts big, genuine smiles. The adoration you had for each other is evident.

As the successor to your heart, maybe he should feel a twinge of jealousy, but he doesn’t. He actually finds it sweet. It fills him with warmth to know you spent a long while being well-loved.

The wall of photos displays relics from Ethan’s youth, too.

Graduation photos, family vacations, a bar mitzvah. Dieter picks up on something. A distinct before and after. He stops on a picture of Ethan as a child, hugging a younger boy—his brother, Benji—by a lake, and it starts to come together. Although he can’t quite pinpoint the defining line, it splits him in two and fractures into shards.

An icy cold rush overtakes his body, like the word gave out from under him and he’s suddenly submerged in freezing water. He can’t breathe. He can’t scream. Feral, panicked energy pulses through his veins. His concrete limbs can’t move, paralyzed as he sinks, deeper, deeper, deeper…

Dieter returns to himself with a jolt, gasping for air.

He takes a step back and slumps over, pressing his palms into his knees as he pants, “What the fuck, man? What the fuck?”

You need to find her before it’s too late.

Red bubbles up his chest.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he sits up, jaw clenched, fists balled, and steps into the through-line of the mirrors. They reflect off one another to form a long, curved tunnel that stretches out on either side of him. Dieter looks from one mirror, to the other, seeing his image captured within each infinite layer.

“Fuck you, man,” he seethes, shaking his head, “You fucking did this, you know that? Fucking piece of shit. I’m fucking trying, ok?”

The last sentence comes out hoarse and thick. Heat works up his throat and his vision blurs with tears.

“Whoa—hey, Dieter,” Parker runs into the room, all wide-eyed and searching Dieter’s face, “What’s wrong?”

A sob heaves his shoulders. He hangs his head, shaking it from side-to-side, “I’m trying, Parker.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, pulling Dieter into a hug, reassuring him, “We’re gonna find her.”

“What if we don’t?”

“We will. Keep that faith, papi. We will.”

Dieter buries his face in Parker’s bony shoulder, releasing the pent-up worry and guilt festering infectious in his chest for the past day. Parker pets his hair and rocks him back and forth, letting out a few of his own sniffles alongside Dieter’s.

When their crying starts to peter out, Parker gives him one more squeeze and pulls back, asking, “You wanna get out of here? This place is a fucking mess, and we gotta catch that flight soon anyway.“

“Can I look in her room first?”

Parker’s eyebrows knit together over bloodshot eyes, and he nods, patting his friend on the shoulder before stepping aside.

Dieter approaches your bedroom cautiously. Paranoid thoughts circulate in his brain, all those what-ifs and delusions of tragedy. What if he finds you here, cold and lifeless? What if you’re dead somewhere while he pokes around your apartment, looking for clues? Is he doing enough? Could he do more?

But when the door groans on its hinges as he pushes it open, and he sets foot inside your bedroom, the impending doom percolating in his veins drains from him almost instantly. Many of your things have been rifled through, like the rest of your apartment, but the place holds an air of serenity.

It feels warm and safe.

It feels like you.

Flipping the light on, he closes the door behind him, then walks over to your bed and crawls under the covers, burying himself beneath them.

The sheets still carry a faint whiff of sex and sleep from before the two of you embarked for LA. His lungs expand with a deep, wide breath. Eyes drifting closed, he thinks of you. How you’re feeling. Where you are. What you’re doing.

He picks up the bite of a chilled breeze. The steady babble of a river. Warm hands. Burnt tongue. Coffee, bitter and black.

The signal drops.

Not much, but enough for him to know you’re not in immediate danger, which brings him some solace.

Still under the blankets, he pulls out his phone and dials your number. It rings and rings until your voicemail picks up.

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.”

“Hey doll, it’s me. I’m at your apartment. It’s a fucking mess. Parker and I stopped by before going back to LA. He’s coming with me to help… well, to help find you. Anyway. I’m in your bed. It still smells like us. It was hard for me to fall asleep last night without you. Waking up without you is… it’s hell. I don’t know. I miss you, Lua. It’s been one fucking day and I miss you more than I’ve ever missed anyone in my life. I love you. I’ll call you when I get back.”

Despite your lack of sleep, you managed to make this morning a productive one.

You removed the slip-cases from the furniture and dusted, then forced yourself to eat a halfway decent breakfast of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. After washing the dishes, you soaked in the tub for a while, staring up at the wood-paneled bathroom ceiling as you contemplated what to do with yourself, both in the short-term context and the long-term.

While drying off, you noticed the bright, mid-day sun shining down into the valley, making everything glow golden. It looked inviting.

You dug through your suitcase, sifting through the clothing you packed with a warmer climate in mind. Shorts. Dresses. Bikinis. The best you could do was a sweater and some pajama bottoms.

Down by the riverbank, you found this creaky wooden porch swing and settled on which to sit and ponder.

You smooth the tip of your finger along the dewy lip of the mug, breaking up a curl of steam with each lazy revolution around its circumference.

Today is the shortest day of the year.

The winter solstice.

Every once in a while, wind rolls down off the snowy tips of the Sierra Nevadas and meets the warmth of the California sun. The creaky wooden bench sits square in the middle of these contradictory weather conditions. Hot and cold. Dry and damp. Constantly churning, waxing and waning from one state to another.

A crisp gust of wind from upriver cuts through the sun-baked pocket of air where you’re seated. You huddle into your jacket and bring the steaming mug to your lips, hissing when the black coffee scorches your tongue.

The thought of Dieter shoots through you like a bullet.

You picture him beneath the covers of your bed, fully clothed in his furry winter jacket, wearing your scarf, eyes clenched shut, wishing you would come out of hiding because it’s safe now.

It rattles you.

An infinite number of memories and worries and hopes and what-ifs flood your mushy, sleep deprived brain. They all muddle together in an incomprehensible cluster fuck that sets your blood ablaze and makes your ears ring. Your body contracts, squeezing a sob from deep within your chest.

Fuck.

Every single ounce of you aches to see him. To smell him. To feel his arms wrapped around you and hear his voice murmuring honeyed affirmations in your ear, telling you he loves you and understands why you had to leave.

You pray he understands that you didn’t want to. Of fucking course you didn’t want to. You had to. For his sake and for yours.

During the FaceTime call with Parker, when you first saw the cops outside your building, then David Alterman, you could only see two paths forward: Dieter would choose you or his career.

Would he have chosen you? Maybe, but it would have been foolish.

He would have to support you through whatever punishment the state of New York has queued up against you—prison, probably—on top of dealing with the fallout. The public backlash, the halt of money flow, not to mention the loss of his career, which means more to him than public opinion or money. In his own words, acting is his fucking purpose in life.

And for what? An incarcerated girlfriend? Even if you put the issue of your pending criminal charges aside, you still wouldn’t be worth that loss.

It would be gradual, but eventually he would feel it.

It sneaks.

He would come to resent you, and you wouldn’t be able to fault him one bit.

Would he have chosen his career? Maybe, but it would ruin you both.

If he chose to break off your relationship in order to salvage his career, you would have to hear him say it. You would have to know, with certainty, that you take second place in his heart. Maybe this is a selfish notion, this desire to be his number one priority. If he didn’t choose his wife over his career, why the fuck would he choose you?

Not only that, but if he chose this path, he would have to shoulder the hardship of two broken hearts. You know he loves you. You do. Ending your relationship would devastate him. He would be plagued with guilt and shame and regret, all the same as if he chose you to begin with.

It seemed cruel to force him to make this impossible choice. No matter what he did, it would be wrong, and he would carry the burden.

This is when you saw the third path branch out before you.

The one where you could sneak out before the sun rises, dragging your monster by its tether behind you. Where you could lock yourself away in a boarded-up room and wait for her to take you. You, not him.

You would rather absorb the blame, from him and everyone else, a million times over than curse him with the responsibility of this dissolution.

This is a mercy kill.

An act of love.

It may not seem like it to anyone else, but really, it is.

This thought brings you some solace.

Another gust of wind blows shivers down your spine. You bring the mug to your lips to test the coffee’s temperature, finding it tepid, but drink it anyway.

Dieter wasn’t sure what to expect when he came home.

Worst case scenario, he imagined cops waiting to arrest him for bribing an elected official or tell him you turned up dead. Best case, he imagined opening the door to find you there. Problem solved. Happily ever after. He would kiss you breathless and never let you doubt your station in his life again.

What was most likely, though—and what he found—was something in the wide gray area between his paranoia and hopeless romanticism.

Lincoln was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through TikTok on his phone, while Darlene sat at the dining room table, typing away on her laptop.

Although he tried to keep an open mind the whole way here, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. Here he was, exhaustion burning his bones to dust, expecting some kind of a celebration, only to find out this was a checkpoint, not a finish line.

Lincoln and Darlene both perk up at the sound of the door opening. They both rise from their respective places to greet Dieter and Parker.

“Hey, welcome back!” Lincoln calls as he grabs Dieter’s suitcase, “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” he grunts, then nods to Parker, “This is Parker. Parker, this is my PA Lincoln and my publicist Darlene.”

“Former publicist,” Darlene corrects, shaking Parker’s hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Parker gives her a polite smile and a nod to her and Lincoln and tells them, “Thanks for your help.”

“Want me to take your suitcase?” Lincoln asks Parker, dark blonde eye brows raised in expectation.

“I’ve got it, love,” Parker waves him off with a dismissive hand, then turns to Dieter, “Where do you want me?”

Before he can answer, Lincoln cuts in, “Here, I’ll show you to the open guest room.”

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Parker’s mouth. He shrugs, “Lead the way, pretty boy.”

Even in the dim illumination of the waning daylight, Dieter sees Lincoln’s cheeks flush pink. He grins and starts off down the hall. Before following, Parker looks at Dieter, raising a mischievous brow as he glances between him and Lincoln, mouthing, “Cute.”

“Any updates?” Dieter asks Darlene as he slides off his crocs and starts towards the kitchen.

“Well,” she sighs, crossing her arms, tilting her head to one side, “There has been progress.”

The way she says it sounds like the beginning of bad news. He pauses his search for food and frowns at her. Static rises in his throat.

“And?”

She walks to the dining room table to grab her notebook, flipping back a few pages as she approaches the kitchen island and leans against it.

“So, I was able to trace her steps to a transit station in Fresno. I went up there yesterday and talked to security. Found out she took a cab from there, but the cab company won’t disclose where they dropped her. The driver reported that she seemed… off. Said she seemed scared and was very secretive, like she was in danger or something. He thought maybe she was running from a domestic abuse situation, and requested that the company not disclose her location.”

Dieter gapes at this, unable to formulate words. She continues.

“She talked a few other cab drivers before this one, so I talked to them. They told me she didn’t give them an address, just said it was about sixty miles away, up in the foothills. But that’s… that’s all I was able to get. The trail runs cold there.”

“Can’t we throw some cash at the cabbie who drove her? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay it, I don’t care—”

“I tried,” she shook her head, throwing her hands up at her sides, “I told them to name their price, they said it wasn’t about money, it was about safety.”

Heat spikes his blood, overwhelming him with nervous energy that sets him into motion, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his neck, clenching his jaw.

“What the fuck do we do now?”

“Do you know if she has any family or friends in that area? Maybe she mentioned something in passing—”

“No, of course she didn’t,” he scoffs.

Darlene doesn’t say anything. Her hazel eyes follow him from side-to-side.

“I know her family is from Ohio, her friends are from New York. Anything else is a fucking mystery to me,” he shakes his head and stops pacing to holler, “PARKER, get in here!”

A few seconds later, he hears footfalls in the hallway, then Parker rounds the corner, blinking at him, “I know you didn’t just call for me like a fuckin’ dog.”

“Does Lua know anyone out by Fresno? In the mountains?” Darlene asks him.

Parker frowns as he thinks about this, shaking his head, “I don’t think so.”

“Distant relatives, old friends,” Darlene glances at Dieter, “Exes, anything like that?”

Dieter glares at her, nostrils flaring, to which she defends, “We have to cast a wide net, I’m just asking.”

Parker shakes his head again, “No.

“What about Ethan’s family?”

His face stays fixed in a searching expression. No glint of recognition.

Dieter’s shoulders slump.

Parker looks at him, brows knit together with concern, and adds, “But honestly, I’m so fucking exhausted, I might not be remembering right now.”

They sit there for a moment, dull and disenchanted, until Darlene sighs, “Well, should we order some takeout?”

By late afternoon, the sun starts to sink down into the ragged black tree line of the far away mountains.

Rays of light catch the atmosphere just right, casting a shimmering golden hue onto the cabin. One of these beautiful glowing beams streams through the window and manages to hit you square in the eyeballs.

Grimacing, you flip your book belly-down onto the end table and push yourself up into a sitting position. A yawn expands your lungs. You stretch your arms above your head, then let them fall limp at your sides.

Charred logs glow inside the fireplace. No flames. You rise to your feet and trudge over to it, swinging the grate open to slide a few more logs on the fire. They sizzle and pop as they catch heat and light ablaze.

You look around the cozy, rustic living room, glancing at the clock on the wall, then out the window.

Earlier today, while poking around the cabin for something interesting to take your mind off… Well, everything, you stumbled upon a small stash of homemade wine. A glass–maybe a bottle–sounds nice right now. Maybe you could make some food, too. Probably should.

You pad across the dark lacquered floorboards to the cellar door, and push it open. Wrinkling your nose at the mildew scent, you flip the lightswitch on and tip-toe down the stairs, then across the room to the wine rack. One-by-one, you pull out the corked green glass bottles and take note of their year. A few are labeled Plum 2017. Two Strawberry 2018s. Half a dozen Red 2018s.

One of the bottles reads White 2017. A fond smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You slip the bottle under your arm before jogging up the stairs to the main level, where you sift through Sarah’s record collection. A Frank Sinatra album catches your eye, so you put it on, then pour a glass of wine and survey your limited options for supper.

A part of you wants to say fuck it, skip the meal. Just let your empty stomach soak up the wine. Let the tiny tendrils of alcohol branch out into your bloodstream and work its numbing magic. Maybe it’ll dim the acute pain simmering beneath your sternum.

Then you spot the lemon on the counter, sitting beside a bulb of garlic and a blue mesh bag of onions.

There’s pasta and olive oil in the cabinet. Parmesan in the fridge. You could make something nice with that. Maybe watch the sunset.

I could do it tonight.

No.

Why not?

You picture Dieter the first time you saw him. Shifty and slightly arrogant, all blown-out pupils and twitches. Basically a red flag wearing a human suit. You thought he was handsome, though. And his booming laughter brought a real smile to your face for the first time in weeks.

It felt familiar.

It felt like sunshine kissing your skin after a long bout of darkness.

Shaking the picture from your head, you start rummaging through the cupboards for a pot and saucepan. You fill the pot with water, toss in some salt.

When you pull the chef’s knife from the butcher block, you pause to examine the blade in the golden hour light.

I could slice my pulse open.

No.

Why not?

You picture Dieter the second time you met him. Kaleidoscope skin and chartreuse aura. Acid stripped away the cocaine ego to expose his bare bones. And they were beautiful.

Something happened that night. A tethering. A melding. Some ethereal otherworldly connection that intertwined your souls.

Even though he was essentially a stranger, you couldn’t shake the sense that he had always been and always would be a part of you.

Swallowing around the emotion welling up in your throat, you shake your head. Too messy.

The thought of your own blood makes you queasy. If some has to find you like that?

Fuck.

Your stomach twists into nausea.

You set down the knife and find a cutting board, then resume your dinner preparation, singing along to the music, concentrating on the mechanical motion of the blade tearing through the onion, meeting resistance with each aromatic layer.

The goddamn knife is dull anyway.

After mincing the garlic, you nudge your little piles of chopped-up produce into the gleaming pool of melted butter in the saucepan. Steam rises with a gentle sizzle, moisture meeting fat.

Inside the pot, tiny ripe bubbles line the underwater walls, waiting to burst.

Turn up the heat.

Stir the saucepan.

Sip your wine.

You tap your fingers on the countertop, following the beat of the brass band, and quietly sing along with Ol’ Blue Eyes, “No one would care, no one would cry. If I should live, if I should live or die. What now, my love? Now there is nothing. Only my last, my last goodbye.”

You picture Dieter at the beach, holding your hand as the two of you waded through the tide. The best day of your life.

You picture him in his boxers, watering his plants. You picture his warm brown eyes flicking between you and a sketchpad. Him taking the first bite of a gooey brownie and groaning with delight. Laying behind you in the bathtub, arms wrapped around your waist underwater, planting a soft kiss on your cheek bone. Waking up in the morning, his wild dark curls all bent the shape of his pillow indent, a wistful, sleepy smirk on his lips. Laughing. Smiling. Telling you he loves you. Meaning it.

A deep ache of shame spreads across your chest. Your stomach churns. Tears burn behind your eyes, then spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks.

How fucking stupid are you to think the darkness wouldn’t come and swallow everything whole, Dieter included?

What, because you’re in love, the two of you should be spared?

Has that ever stopped her before?

I should fucking know better.

A far-off, high frequency noise starts in your ear and it cuts audio for a second. Everything around you seems far away. Not real. You feel spectral, like you’re dreaming or a ghost or in a tv show or something.

Entirely fiction.

Sniffling, you wipe your damp with the sleeve of your sweater.

You grab the wine glass off the counter and swallow its contents, then refill it, splashing a little vino into the saucepan before setting the bottle aside.

A roar swells as the ingredients get to know each other. You take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, pungent scent, then notice steam billowing off the water in your pot. The still surface has erupted into a consistent boil. You throw about half of a pound of fettuccine into the pot. More than enough, but who the fuck makes only one serving of pasta?

While the fettuccine cooks, you pour some cream into the saucepan, then whisk and whisk and whisk, pausing periodically to stir the pasta. Once the sauce thickens, you whisk in pre-grated parmesan a pinch at a time. You fish a strand of fettuccine out of the boiling water and confirm its al dente status, then transfer a few spoonfuls of pasta water into the sauce before pouring the pot over a colander in the sink.

It calms you, this process. The step-by-step. Seeing the fruits of your labor unfold in real time. Each checkbox marked calms your ragged nerves more than the last.

Before you know it, you’re curled up in an adirondack chair on the deck, quilt draped over your shoulders, twisting fettuccine around your fork as you watch the sun sink down into the mountains, turning the sky into this beautiful vivid watercolor. It’s fucking gorgeous, you’ll give it that.

Am I really going to go through with this?

That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? To end this? To ascend into that glowing iridescent tunnel? To cross the threshold and finally return to the sea of love?

It’s funny, you think, how your whole life you were afraid of dying because you didn’t know what came after.

But after seeing it, you know you had it completely backwards.

Death is a piece of cake. You weren’t scared once when it happened. It’s like the light turned on in your room and you knew there was nothing hiding in wait. Nothing sneaking.

Life, though?

Life is scrambling through the darkness of uncertainty, trying to find a beacon. When you make contact with them, you cling to flames, hoping they’ll burn forever to keep you safe and warm. They won’t. They always burn out.

By the time you finish your pasta, the wine has fully assimilated into your bloodstream, drowning all the excess noise in your head. You polish off the bottle while watching the sun sink down into the Sierra Nevadas. Dusk absorbs the light. The atmosphere shifts from midnight blue to inky black, enveloping you in darkness. It doesn’t even bother you.

Head swimming with wine, you lay out on the cold deck and stare up at the nighttime sky, littered with dazzling pinprick stars.

They remind you of all the times you stargazed with your father, and the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars Ethan hung on the ceiling of the first bedroom you shared with him.

They remind you of how incredibly vast the darkness is.

How the hopeful glimmer of a star can appear so bright and so close, but really be lightyears away, in another galaxy, another life.

Maybe the next one.

[ Next Chapter ]

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