Chapter Thirty-Nine
Brooklyn
The snow starts again—soft flakes drifting down, clinging to the dead grass and the fallen logs. It’ll cover my tracks soon. That’s good. That’s also bad. Because if it hides me from him, it hides me from Jackson too.
God, Jackson.
I close my eyes and picture him. His hands. His voice. The way he always looked at me like I was something strong, not breakable. Like I was worth fighting for.
“Please find me,” I breathe.
The cold answers with silence.
Then—
Somewhere in the trees—
Humming.
My blood turns to ice.
A tune I know too well. Sung softly, like a lullaby meant to soothe.
But the sound does anything but.
He’s close.
He’s still looking.
And he isn’t rushing.
He doesn’t need to.
Because in his mind—
This is just a game.
A game that he's already won.
I clamp my hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot cry. I cannot move. I cannot let him hear me.
I wait.
Still.
Silent.
Begging whatever gods are listening that Jackson finds me first.
The humming again.
It drifts through the trees like smoke — thin, careful, patient. Not loud. Not calling. Just there. Like it belongs in the forest. Like it owns the space it moves through.
My chest tightens so fast it knocks the air from me.
He’s close.
Closer than I’ve heard him since I escaped.
I press myself deeper into the hollow of the old tree, bark scraping my spine. I hold my breath. My heartbeat feels like it’s rattling my ribs; I’m terrified the forest will hear it.
Don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t feel.
Just wait.
The humming stops.
The silence after it is worse.
When he doesn’t make sound — that’s when he’s searching. Listening. Thinking. I know his patterns. I lived inside them.
A crack of snow under a boot sounds somewhere to my left.
Too close.
Too close.
I curl my hand over my stomach, fingers trembling. The cold has sunk deep now — into my bones, into my muscles. My toes are numb. My legs are stiff. I’m shaking. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this tree, but if I stay much longer… I won’t be able to move at all.
Which means when he finds me —and he will if I don’t move —I won’t be able to run.
A sting of panic hits my eyes. I blink it back.
I think of Jackson.
His hands.
His arms around me.
His voice in my hair telling me I’m safe.
The way he looks at me like I’m something sturdy. Like I’m something he chooses.
If he’s out here — if he’s even close —
I have to keep going.
But if I run…
I could make noise.
I could leave tracks.
I could lead him straight to me.
Or straight to Jackson.
My breath shudders.
I don’t get to choose safety.
I only get to choose which danger I face.
Staying means being caught.
Running means maybe freezing, maybe falling, maybe failing.
But at least running means I’m still trying.
I swallow hard, steadying myself with one hand against the inside of the trunk. My legs scream as I begin to move. I hold in a whimper. The sound would give me away.
Slow.
Slow.
Don’t break a branch.
Don’t drag your feet.
Don’t—
A low, soft sound floats across the clearing.
Not humming.
Breathing.
Human.
Close.
My fingers dig into the bark, splintering under my nails.
Move.
I push myself out of the hollow — into the snow, into the cold, into the world where everything hurts and everything matters.
I keep low. I keep quiet. I keep going.
Every step feels like walking on glass.
Every breath feels like fire and ice and fear.
But my feet keep moving.
Because someone is looking for me with love.
And someone else is looking for me with possession.
And I will not go back.
No matter what happens.
I run.
My breath burns. My legs are shaking so badly I can barely keep myself upright. The cold cuts deeper with every step — sharp, biting, merciless. Snow clings to my jeans, to my hair, to my eyelashes. The world is a blur of white and dark branches.
I don’t know how long I run before my body gives a warning — sharp and deep and low in my abdomen. I stop with a gasp, clutching my stomach, trying to breathe through it.
Not now.
Please not now.
The forest tilts. I blink hard, trying to steady it. I can’t collapse. I can’t stop. If I stop, he catches me. If I stop —
A snap of wood echoes behind me.
He’s still tracking.
I look around desperately — trees, snow, silent sky — and then I see it:
An uprooted pine, its roots torn up like claws, the hollow beneath it dark and just big enough to crawl into.
I don’t think.
I move.
I scramble under the tangled roots, dirt and ice scraping my hands, snow shaking loose into my hair. I curl in tight, making myself small. Invisible. A ghost.
I press my back against the frozen earth and slow my breathing.
In.
Out.
Small. Quiet. Gone.
I close my eyes.
Footsteps pass nearby.
Slow.
Measured.
Listening.
He’s close enough that I can hear the soft crunch of his boots settling into snow. I don’t dare look. I don’t dare breathe too deep.
The footsteps fade.
But I stay still long after they’re gone.
Minutes.
Hours.
Time has no meaning now.
When I finally let myself exhale, my whole body begins to shake again — not from cold this time.
From surviving.
From almost not.
I lean my head back against the dirt. A sound catches in my throat. Not quite a sob. Not quite a laugh. Something in between and broken.
And then — behind me — something shifts.
A breath.
Not mine.
My entire body locks.
No.
No no no no no—
I’m not alone.
I don’t turn. I can’t turn. My muscles are frozen, my pulse crashing so hard it hurts.
A voice whispers, barely audible, so close I can feel the warmth of it near my ear, “Don’t scream.”
My blood goes cold.
Not his voice.
Not the captor’s.
Not Jackson's.
A different voice.
But a man’s — quiet, rough, strained.
Breathing hard like he’s been running too.
I open my mouth — but the voice speaks again, soft, urgent, “It’s okay. I’m not him.”
My heart stutters.
I don’t know if I believe him.
I don’t know if I can.
But I don’t move.
The space is too small. If he wanted to grab me — he already would have.
His breath shudders like he’s hurting too.
“I’ve been hiding here since last night,” he whispers. “Saw him. Heard him. I thought you were him.”
A beat of silence.
Two broken survivors in the same dark.
“I’m… Caleb,” he says.
I don’t answer.
Not yet.
Not until I know if this is salvation.
Or another trap.
I only whisper one word, cracked and trembling:
“Brooklyn.”
The silence between us isn’t empty anymore.
It’s alive.
And full of possibilities I don’t know how to trust.
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