Page 40 of Dead Man's Wish
“I’m not at your house,” he said, frantic.
“Peters,” I whispered. I looked out into the yard and sharp prick stuck in the right side of my neck. “Jaiden,” I struggled to get out. “Get . . .” Heaviness settled in my limbs and my tongue wouldn’t move. My throat tightened despite my best efforts to scream. My phone lay cracked in front of me, but Peters was still on the line and I thought I heard him talking. He never knew when to shut up.
Boots stepped in front of my face and the world tilted. I tried to cry. I wanted to scream. My body refused to do anything as my vision blurred before going completely black.
I love you. I love you. I’m sorry. I loved you so much.
Eighteen
August 18, 2025
Jaiden Wells
My phone chimedas I pulled onto the highway. Finally regaining service, the messages from our group chat filtered in one by one. Keeping good on my promise, I pulled off on my exit and opened her up. The streets weren’t occupied at this hour, and my flirtation with the law hadn’t lessened by much since having Bexley in my life.
Besides, I really wanted to scoop her up and cuddle all night. We were falling behind on our TV shows and after the month we’d endured, we deserved some mindless entertainment. I skirted through a few stop signs and took it easy once I hit our neighborhood. I wasn’t a complete dick. Or, at the very least, I did care that our street didn’t hate me for waking them up in the middle of the night.
I wanted to be home earlier, but the major highway was doing late-night construction and caused a backup. Lane-splitting only got me so far there.
With a gentle purr, I coasted down our street, stretching my back and resting my arm at my side. Coming up from the back, I spotted the cop car that felt like a permanent fixture. I was grateful, don’t get me wrong, but the constant reminder someone was out to get us didn’t bode well for my prolonged mental health.
I parked in front of them and engaged the kickstand. After I killed the engine, the deafening silence returned. I propped my helmet on the seat, willing to deal with it later if it meant holding her sooner. The scattered gravel crunched under my boots. I ran my hands through my hair, making sure it didn’t look fucked up.
It hit me then—the all too familiar stench of blood loss.
Halfway up the walkway, I spotted the officer splayed across our porch. Darkness pooled around him and traveled down our steps.
What were the fear responses?
Fawn.
Flight.
Fight.
Freeze.
I stood there, frozen in place as my heart raced and my world shattered. His body was lifeless. He’d tell me nothing. Blue-lipped and dull-eyed, he was just an unfortunate casualty in the war we were never prepared to face. I turned around. The police car was empty.
Two officers covering the front. Two officers covering the back.
I didn’t care to look for the others. I moved on autopilot. The front door was closed, but when I turned the handle, it gave way and swung open.
“No,” I whispered. My vision blurred and tears streamed down my face. “No, no.”
I crossed the threshold, noting nothing was out of place and exactly as I’d left it. The kitchen was pristine—no flowers, no broken glass, no death threats. I walked down the hall toward her office, passed the living room, and it was like nothing was wrong.
“Bexley,” I called. Anticipating no response didn’t make it feel better. I pushed her office door open. The usual case clutter littered her floor. It was so normal that she could’ve walked around the corner at any moment.
I turned, praying to whoever cared to listen that she was in bed sound asleep. Safe. Taking the steps two at a time, I felt my blood rush through my ears and deafen all rationalization. At the top, I stared down the hall of bedrooms.
The plans for our future played out in front of me: kids, pets, everything. I’d always had everything right here and now she was gone.
“Bexley,” I choked out.Why can’t I hear a shower running? Why isn’t the TV on?Our bedroom door was closed, and I couldn’t bring myself to knock or push it open. I knew what waited on the other side.
I touched the painted wood, dragging my fingers across the smooth surface. My breath hitched as my chest tightened beyond physical limitations.Is this what a stress heart attack feels like?On the verge of hyperventilation, I let my sobs wrack my body.
Tell me it’s okay. Walk out here and tell me I’m going insane.
