Page 93 of Every Shattered Note
I watch the rain slide down the glass, each drop tracing an invisible map back to where everything started.
“I wish I could help,” I murmur.
“You could,” Alec says simply.“Come with us.”
“My business would fall apart.My best friend and everyone who depends on me ...they’d be stranded.”
He glances at me, eyes softened by something close to understanding.“Then make sure he hears your voice.Call him.Write.Send a message, even if it’s just one line.People have a way of disappearing on him, and every time they do, it leaves another crack.”
“You talk like you’ve been there.”
“I have,” he admits, his tone dropping low.“He doesn’t believe much in himself.Puts too much importance on what everyone else thinks.It’s like he’s been living on borrowed confidence.”
My throat feels dry.“He said he was coming back, but acted as if he wasn’t.”
“He’s scared,” Alec replies.“When you’ve spent years building walls out of stage lights and applause, it’s hard to walk out into the dark and trust someone’s going to be there.But you can’t fix that for him.You just have to decide if you’re willing to wait while he figures out how to stand on his own.”
I stare at my hands.“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
He exhales, the sound almost like a sigh.“Then start with this—don’t lose yourself in trying to save him.I’ve seen what that does.You can’t love someone back to life if you stop living your own.”
The silence that follows feels like a truth neither of us wants to look at too closely.
When we finally reach my building, Jules is already waiting under the awning—red curls peeking from beneath a beanie, oversized sweater swallowing her frame.She’s holding two cups of coffee, wearing that practiced expression she saves for me—half concern, halfdon’t-make-me-say-I-told-you-so.
Alec steps out, grabs my suitcase, and sets it by the curb.“Call if you need anything,” he says, and it sounds less like an offer and more like a quiet order.
“Make sure he’s okay,” I tell him, my voice thinner than I intend.
He nods.“Always.”
Jules doesn’t ask questions.She just wraps an arm around me, warm and solid.“You look like you need pancakes and sleep,” she murmurs.“In that order.”
I nod.It’s easier than explaining the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t fade with rest.
My apartment feels smaller, almost unfamiliar.The air smells faintly of dust and lavender candles.The answering machine blinks red like it’s been waiting to be acknowledged, and the plants by the window are drooping in quiet protest.
I drop my bag and head straight for the shower.Hot water, lavender soap, silence.The steam curls around me, and for a moment I let my eyes close, pretending he’s behind me—Dex, with that teasing half-smile and voice that always found a way to slip under my skin.But it’s just me.Just the sound of water and the ache in my chest that refuses to leave.
When I emerge, Jules has already taken over the kitchen.Pancakes.Blueberries.Coffee.She doesn’t push.She talks about everything and nothing—the leaky faucet, the neighbor’s cat, how she thinks the landlord’s been flirting with her again.
I nod at the right times.Smile when I can manage it.But my thoughts keep drifting back to the plane, to the quiet hum of the engines and the way he didn’t say goodbye.
By the time I finish eating, the rain has softened into a whisper against the windows.The evening news murmurs from the TV, just noise—until one word cuts through.
Vaughn.
The sound freezes me mid-sip.My cup trembles slightly as the screen flashes to an old photograph: a hotel façade, yellow police tape fluttering in the wind.Then the headline appears.
THE VAUGHN FILES: NEW ALLEGATIONS SURFACE IN 1983 DEATH
My pulse skitters.I can’t move.
The footage rolls—grainy clips of reporters outside a courthouse, flashes of cameras, a voiceover that feels too detached to match the gravity of what’s being said.
Dexter’s father.The hotel.Words like ‘cover-up’ and ‘paid witness’ blur together until all I can hear is the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
And then his name.
