Chapter 2

In Samuel's eyes, I was just annoying, not worth his kindness. But back in the day, I was someone's entire world. I knew what it felt like to be held, to be looked after, to be loved for real.

I hugged the photo to my chest, leaned back against the headboard, and closed my eyes.

For years, I'd been battling chronic insomnia. Pills didn't do a thing. But tonight, I drifted off almost instantly. For the first time since Heathcliff Quinn died, I saw him in my dreams.

I dreamed of that Christmas, when he snuck into my room and slipped a cross under my pillow. It was his grandma's legacy.

The moonlight outside was as bright then. He crouched by my bed, his eyes shining, and whispered, "This is the real deal. It'll keep you safe."

After graduation, we got married, and I was pregnant.

He'd pressed the cross gently against my belly, his voice full of childlike hope. "Gotta keep our baby safe too." Then he pressed his cheek against my stomach, lingering there.

Back then, I truly believed we'd soon be a family of three.

Then, out of nowhere, a group of men kicked the door down.

When the knife touched my neck, Heathcliff, who had been fighting them off crazily, froze. He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot and completely blank.

The guys laughed and made him slice his own artery.

I'd never seen blood spray like that. It shot up like a fountain, bright red and searing, burning in my eyes.

As Heathcliff collapsed, he was still smiling at me. He said, "Don't cry, Catherine. You have to live a long, happy life."

Outside, the pale moonlight melted into a midwinter blizzard, snowflakes swirling in an endless, eternal storm.

I thrashed, trying to scream, but my throat felt like it had been shredded. Not a sound came out.

*****

Heathcliff died with every drop of blood drained from his body.

After he died, I shut myself away. I miscarried, lying in bed and dead to the world.

For weeks, I was haunted by the same question: who were those men? I couldn't make sense of it.

I knew for a fact I'd never seen them before. Heathcliff and I lived a quiet, normal life. We were kind to the neighbors, we never had beef with anyone, and we were waiting for our baby. We weren't the type to invite trouble.

I spent a whole month obsessing over it, and in the end, I started to wonder if Heathcliff had been hiding something from me.

Maybe he'd done something bad behind my back, or gotten mixed up in something he shouldn't have.

Then the police finally gave me the answer. Those men were looking for a junkie who'd just moved in next door. But they were so high that he had hit the wrong unit.

My love was gone, and my whole world crumbled, all because a bunch of lowlifes got the wrong apartment.

The pain was a physical weight in my lungs. I felt trapped, past the point of tears.

I jolted awake, cold moonlight washing over my face. My eyes were soaked. I sat there in the dark for a long time, finally hearing the jagged, ugly sobs tearing out of my throat.

Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open. Samuel stormed in, radiating pure aggression. He marched to the bed. "My mom went to the hotel again. Was that you?"

I was still reeling, staring at him in a fog. In the shadows, his face looked exactly like Heathcliff's. For a split second, I thought Heathcliff had come back.

But then Samuel flipped on the light, and the room was flooded with brightness. His face came into sharp focus, and the hope and longing I'd had vanished on the spot.

He repeated impatiently, "I said my mom—" But he stopped dead. He stared at my face in utter shock.