Page 43 of The Sweetest Obsession

I never was.

Neither was Ophelia.

Hell, when we were kids, she was usually the one who accidentally ratted us out when the three of us got up to some shenanigans.

It wasn’t that she was trying to snitch.

She just got flustered and spilled the beans when her ma or my parents gave us a good grilling. Usually, it was worse when it was my folks. Growing up without a dad, Ophelia never learned the resistance it took to face down not one, buttwoparents with a straight face, and—

Fuck, there I go thinking about her again.

She’s living inside my damn head rent free.

Maybe she always has, I don’t know.

I just know I don’t have the answers I need.

Ethan’s disappearance has haunted me my entire adult life.

Growing up an only child, it meant a hell of a lot to have someone my own age who felt like family; like the brother I never had. Then one day he was gone, leaving behind a soul-sucking void.

As much as I hated losing him, what hit me the hardest was how rough it was for Ophelia when he just up and vanished.

Also, how little I could do about it.

If I’m being honest, I was on the fence about staying a cop early on. Didn’t seem like there was much to it in a Podunk town like this where the real heinous crimes go unsolved.

It’s still a minor miracle we took down one Arrendell prick and got closure on a few cases.

Back then, I was only half sold on police work, still thinking about getting into metal fabrication, something like that—and then that night happened.

Celeste Graves and Ethan Sandersongone.

I realized fast if I ever wanted answers, I’d have to stay a cop and keep looking into their disappearances, if only to find some closure.

Not just for me, but for that gorgeous bewitching woman with her wild green eyes that could turn so sad in an instant, like she’s remembering everything she’ll never have again.

Then she ran off.

Because my dumbass pushed her away.

Because I had to bark my hurt at her instead of learning to keep a leash on my anger like a grown-ass man.

Growling, I roll up my sleeve to scratch my arm, lingering on the black butterfly tangled in barbed wire that traces my bicep.

Go ahead and guess what inspired that.

Pain has a way of bringing fresh ink to a man’s skin like misery loves company. Some secrets are so loud they just won’t shut up every time he looks in a mirror.

Maybe because he doesn’t want them to.

Maybe because he needs to hear them to remember who he is.

Truth be told, I stopped looking as hard for answers after she ghosted and the only butterfly I had left in my life was the one branded on my skin.

What the hell was the point if it wasn’t for her?

I’m jolted out of my thoughts like I’m thunderstruck when I glimpse blonde hair moving down the street, familiar body language, and for a moment my heart kicks like a gunshot.

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