Page 140 of The Anchor Holds

Jasper’s body was being taken care of. The murder weapon had already been destroyed along with any trace of me being in that apartment. Even in my state, I wouldn’t leave loose ends. I might’ve killed an important part of myself with that knife, but I wouldn’t completely self-destruct. No way would I enjoy prison.

I made all the necessary arrangements to ensure that I was never tied to Jasper’s death. No security camera footage, no cell phone tower pings, DNA, nothing. Not that it was hard. Jasper didn’t exist in the first place, not on paper anyway. There was no family to report him missing to, no friends, no lover.

Beyond the people he worked for, who wouldn’t mourn him for a second, there was no one to miss him.

Except me.

Once his body was gone, it would be like he had never existed.

It was after midnight when I made it home to Jupiter, ignoring the urge to go to Elliot’s small house in the woods. I ached for the comfort of his arms, as if his scent and his skin would absolve me of my sins. Keep me safe. What I’d just done had guaranteed that I’d never darken his door again.

He’d turn me away anyway, now that I’d told him about Naomi. There was only so far the love of a good man went.

Instead, I drove to the house on the beach that belonged to my brother but was now the only home I had left.

The house I grew up in would always be there. I’d go there for holidays and pretend to be a member of my family, but Thomas Wolfe was right: You can’t go home again. Especially after you murdered the boy you fell for as a teenager who then dragged you into a life of crime as an adult. Crime I committed while wearing couture but crimes, nonetheless.

I’d leave the ghosts of Calliope and Jasper untouched and pristine, running around a small town on a loop, unaware of the life that would ruin them both.

Jupiter was it for me. I had nowhere else to go.

And I’d have to walk around carrying the ghost of who I might’ve been had things been different.

If I wasn’t a killer. If I hadn’t met Jasper when I was a teenager. If I hadn’t met Elliot.

I wasn’t prone to introspection and what ifs, yet I was now being strangled by them. On autopilot, I parked my car and made my way into the house. Or at least that’s what I assumed I did since one moment I was driving and the next I was inside. My memory of how exactly that happened was lost somewhere in it all. Time was being stolen, replaced by the look in Jasper’s eyes, the feel of his blood on my skin, watching the life drain out of him.

I laughed. The echo of the horrid sound ricocheted throughout the house.

I let myself drown in those memories, choke on them.

It was what I deserved.

He found me, sitting on the floor of the living room, covered in dried blood. I’d been so tired, had needed to sit but didn’t want to dirty the couch. Didn’t want to have to burn it.

Although only flakes of blood had fallen from me, I’d have to get my car detailed. Or do it myself as missed flecks of blood would probably raise red flags.

I needed to dispose of my clothes.

All things that ran through my mind as I was curled up in a ball on the floor. In a moment, I told myself. I’d do it in a moment.

It was the middle of the night.

And Elliot was here. Was he real?

His hand was warm against the ice sculpture that was my cheek. So warm it sent a spear of agony through me. I didn’t move, though. He spoke, said my name. It echoed in my head. From somewhere far away. I didn’t reply. My lips were fused together.

How had he known I was here? Did he have some kind of alert on the door, my brother or Kip surveilling the house through the security system I didn’t doubt they had the connections to hack into?

The details didn’t much matter.

Nothing mattered.

I felt his body curl around me, the heat from his arms scalding me for a second. But even his sunshine couldn’tpenetrate where I’d buried myself. I couldn’t grasp on to an ounce of warmth from the man who used to stoke an inferno inside of me.

When he brought me into his arms, I felt encased and entombed by them.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Shame covered me like oil. I was supposed to be stronger than that. Falling apart after doing something that needed to be done, essentially going catatonic. I hated it when they did that in movies, when the hero rightly killed the villain then tortured themselves over the act itself.

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