Chapter Fifty-Six
Brooklyn
It’s been three weeks since the hospital. Three weeks since I walked out into daylight and told myself I was free. And I am. Technically. But some days it still feels like I’m stuck there, in that room, or hiding inside of that tree, a place where time didn’t exist, where breathing hurt and every sound felt like a warning.
Jackson keeps saying we’re okay that I’m safe. That he’s not letting me go through this alone. But I don’t think he really knows what “alone” feels like anymore.
I’m trying though. I really am.
The morning air is cool as I walk down the block, hoodie zipped up, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee. My therapist says I need to start going out more, doing normal things again. Whatever that means. So I pick the quietest bookstore in town, the one that always smells like coffee and old paper and safety.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside.
For a second, it feels good. Just the sound of pages turning, someone humming soft music near the counter. The world feels… steady.
I wander through the aisles, fingers brushing over book spines. I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Maybe something that’ll make my brain stop spinning. Something that’ll make me remember what it’s like to feel normal. I end up in the romance section.
*Figures.*
My fingers land on a worn paperback with two people on the cover, tangled up like the world doesn’t exist around them. I smile a little, barely. Maybe this is it. Something light. Something easy.
Then I hear it.
“Brooklyn.”
My stomach drops.
It’s his voice. I swear it is. Right behind me, low and sharp, the way he used to say my name before everything went dark.
The book slips from my hand and hits the floor.
I spin around so fast I almost trip.
No one’s there. Just an older woman with gray hair walking past, arms full of books, humming quietly.
My pulse is pounding. My chest feels too tight.
*It wasn’t him. It can’t be him.*
I crouch to pick the book up, my hands shaking. “Get a grip, Reed,” I whisper under my breath. But the air feels heavy again, like the walls are closing in. Like the sounds of paper and footsteps are sharper than they should be.
I leave without buying anything.
The walk home feels endless.
“Tell me what came up for you when that happened.”
My therapist, Marlene, has that calm voice that always sounds the same, soft, careful, too even. She’s sitting across from me, legs crossed, notepad balanced on her knee.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought I heard him.”
“Someone you recognize?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
Because it’s not possible. He’s gone. Dead. I heard that years ago, and I’ve spent every day since trying to believe it. But the sound of that voice, that deep, cutting tone that used to turn my blood cold, it’s like my body remembered before my brain could stop it.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“So it was a sound.”
“Yeah. Just a sound.”
She writes something down. I hate when she does that.
“Brooklyn, what did you feel in, that moment?”
“Scared.” My voice comes out small. “Like I was right back there again. Like everything I’ve done to get better didn’t matter.”
She nods, not surprised. “That’s a trauma response. You’re not broken, you’re reacting to something that felt like a threat. Your brain doesn’t know the difference yet.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, looking at my hands. “My brain needs to catch up then.”
“Be patient with yourself.”
I look up at her. “Everyone keeps saying that. Be patient. Be kind. Breathe. Like it’s that easy.”
“It’s not easy,” she says gently. “But it is possible.”
I want to believe her.
I really do.
When I get back to Jackson’s, he’s on the couch, laptop open, a cup of coffee going cold beside him. His badge is on the table. He looks up when I walk in, eyes soft but careful, like he’s not sure which version of me he’s getting today.
“Hey, baby,” he says, closing the laptop. “How was therapy?”
“Fine.”
Just that one word. Simple. Safe.
He nods slowly, studying me. “You hungry? I was gonna make dinner.”
“I’m good," I say as I pull off my shoes and leave them by the door. My head is pounding and my chest still feels tight. “I think I’m just gonna shower.”
“Alright.” He stands like he wants to come closer, but I step past him.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk down the hall.
In the shower, I let the water burn against my skin until it turns pink. I tell myself I’m okay. That he’s gone. That only one person who can hurt me now, and that's me, by letting him still live in my head.
But I can’t shut it off. Not the fear or the sound of his voice. Not even the way that Jackson’s touch feels too good, too safe, and how that scares me even more.
When I come out, the lights in the living room are dim. Jackson’s still up, sitting on the couch, scrolling through case notes. He looks up when I walk by.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He doesn’t believe me, I can see it in his eyes.
He starts to say something, but I cut him off. “Can we just… not talk about it tonight?”
He hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”
I go to the bedroom and crawl into bed. I pull the covers up and stare at the ceiling until my eyes sting.
Jackson comes in a few minutes later, the bed dipping when he lies down beside me.
He reaches for my hand slowly, like he’s testing the water.
I let him hold it but I don’t say anything.
I don’t tell him about the voice, or how I nearly ran out of the bookstore shaking, or how every time I close my eyes, I see the dark again.
I don't think I can.
So instead, I just stay quiet.
Because it’s easier to be numb than to fall apart again.
And right now, I need easy.
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