Page 70 of Let Me In

She just stares at the screen for a second longer than she should.

Then turns it off.

Slips it back in her pocket like it’s nothing.

Like she doesn’t feel it burning through her.

But I do.

I see the way her throat moves when she swallows. The blink that takes a second too long. The soft fold of her shoulders, like she’s bracing for something heavier than just the weight of the bag.

And I—

God, I want to tear the phone from her pocket. I want to drive to that house, knock on the door, and make her sister say it to my face.

But I don’t.

Because this moment isn’t about justice.

It’s about her.

And I won’t make her carry my rage on top of everything else.

But I want—fuck, Iwant—to pick her up right now. Toss the bag. Drop the leash. Wrap her in the blanket still sitting on the couch and carry her straight back to bed.

Back to my bed.

Where no voice, no text, no past version of her life can reach her. Where I've been hoping, quietly and fiercely, that one day she'd let me be the place she comes back to. The place where she can breathe. The only shelter she needs.

But I don’t.

Because she’s not asking for that.

And I won’t take away her choice.

Even if it kills me.

Outside, the morning is quiet.

Too quiet.

Sunlight filters through the trees in pale gold streaks, catching on fresh leaves just beginning to unfurl. The air’s still cool, edged with that early-May crispness that clings to shade and rises from the damp ground like memory—but it’s not cold. Not really. Not anymore.

The truck is already warm from where it sat in the sun.

She clips the dogs into the backseat, fingers moving automatically, her head bowed like the weight of the air is pressing down harder now that we’ve left the cabin.

She hasn’t said a word since the phone.

She doesn’t need to.

I open her door. She climbs in with a soft thank you, barely audible.

And then we drive.

The woods are coming back to life—pale green buds, dandelions pushing through gravel at the roadside. But she doesn’t see them.

She’s staring out the window like every tree we pass brings her closer to something she doesn’t want to return to.

---