Chapter 157
Chapter 157
The motel was exactly the kind of place you stopped at only because you had nowhere else to go—just a strip of faded doors under a buzzing fluorescent light, a Coke machine that wheezed like an asthmatic animal, and a sagging wooden sign blinking VACANCY in sickly red letters. Perfectly anonymous. Perfectly forgettable. The kind of place two fugitives could vanish, if only for a night.
Izzy kept telling herself that. Repeating it like a prayer as she leaned against the thin motel pillow, listening to the hum of the ancient wall heater. She had rested for maybe an hour, but rest didn’t mean sleep. Her mind hadn’t let her sleep since Maine. Since the church. Since Clara’s scream.
Beck stood at the room’s tiny kitchenette—no microwave, just a rusted hot plate—and poured water into a dented coffee pot. He looked exhausted; shadows sat under his eyes, and his shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying her fear as well as his own.
“You should eat something,” he murmured.
Izzy shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet.”
She was nauseous again, but she didn’t know if it was pregnancy or panic. Both seemed to live in her chest now, twisting around each other like vines choking a fence.
Beck turned, leaning his hip against the counter. “Izzy… we’re safe for the night. No one followed us. I checked twice.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did. But safety felt like a word from a different language—one she could no longer translate.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “D’you think… he’s still looking?”
Beck didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the motel window, at the thin curtain that did nothing to block out the blinking red neon.
Finally—quietly—he said, “Yeah. I think he is.”
Izzy swallowed hard.
He crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hand found hers, warm and steady.
“I won’t let him take you,” he murmured.
The way he said it made her eyes burn. She blinked fast, refusing to break down again. She’d cried so much lately that her tears felt permanent, a part of her new anatomy.
“You look tired,” Beck said softly, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand. “Try to close your eyes. Just for a bit.”
Izzy nodded, though she doubted she could. But she lay back anyway, pulling the motel blanket up around her shoulders, breathing in the faint smell of bleach and old cigarettes. Beck turned off the lamp. Darkness filled the room except for the faint red glow of the sign outside.
She drifted—not asleep, not awake—just drifting.
Then something cracked like a gunshot.
Izzy bolted upright.
The sound came again.
Not a gunshot.
A car door slamming.
Her heart lurched violently against her ribs.
Beck was already on his feet, eyes wide, body tense like a spring pulled too tight.
“Izzy,” he whispered, “stay behind me.”
She couldn’t seem to breathe. Her lungs refused. Her bloodstream turned to glass.
A flashlight beam swept across the motel window.
Another set of lights. Voices. The crunch of boots on gravel.
Izzy’s pulse hammered in her throat.
Beck grabbed her face gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Listen to me—we don’t know it’s him. It could be nothing.”
But his voice said otherwise.
His voice said he knew exactly who it was.
A fist pounded on their door.
“Police! Open up!”
Izzy’s knees almost gave out.
Police.
They found us. They found us. They found us.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, clutching Beck’s sleeve. “What do we do? Beck—what do we do?”
Beck grabbed her shoulders. “Stay behind me. Let me talk. Don’t say a word unless I tell you to.”
Another bang rattled the flimsy wood. “Open the door!”
Beck exhaled once, hard. Then he cracked the door—but only an inch, using his body as a shield.
“Yes?” he asked, voice calm in a way that didn’t match the panic in his eyes.
A flashlight blinded him. “Sir, step away from the door.”
Izzy’s stomach dropped.
“How can we help you, officers?” Beck said, still blocking the opening.
A stern voice replied, “We have a missing persons alert for Izabella Clarke. Reported by her fiancé. We have reason to believe she may be injured or suffering a mental health crisis.”
Izzy’s vision blurred at the edges.
Her name.
Her name in their mouths.
Her fiancé.
That word again—snapping around her like a trap.
Beck didn’t move. “She’s fine. She’s right here, and she’s not—”
The officer cut him off. “Sir, step aside. Now.”
Izzy clung to Beck’s shirt, shaking. “Beck—don’t let them—”
“I won’t,” he whispered.
But he had no choice.
One officer shoved the door wider.
Another pushed Beck back.
“Izabella Clarke?” the woman officer asked, shining the flashlight directly into Izzy’s face.
Izzy flinched, covering her eyes. “Please—please—don’t do this—”
“Ma’am,” the officer said, her tone clipped but rehearsed, “are you here against your will?”
Izzy opened her mouth—and nothing came out.
The truth sat like a stone in her throat.
The other officer answered for her. “Her fiancé says she’s delusional. Says she’s been refusing medication. Says she’s endangered herself and the baby.”
Izzy’s legs buckled.
“Hey!” Beck roared. “Don’t listen to him—he’s lying! She’s running for her life!”
“Sir, calm down—”
“She is NOT mentally unstable! She’s not—she’s not—”
Two officers pinned him to the wall.
Izzy let out a strangled cry. “Stop—stop, please—he didn’t do anything—”
“We need to separate the two of you,” the female officer said firmly. “For her safety.”
“For her safety?” Beck shouted. “I’ve been keeping her ALIVE!”
“Sir, if you don’t calm down, we’ll have to restrain you.”
“Beck!” Izzy cried, reaching for him as an officer hooked his arms behind his back.
She fought to reach him—but an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her backward.
“No—no—let go—Beck!”
“IZZY!” Beck shouted, straining against the hold. “Izzy—I’m right here! I’m not going anywhere!”
Her scream broke in her throat.
The female officer guided her toward the door. “Ma’am, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Izzy wanted to laugh. Or sob. Or fall apart.
Safe.
Safe was the last thing she was.
“Please,” she whispered, trembling so hard her teeth clicked. “Please don’t take me back to him. You don’t understand—he’ll kill me. He will kill me.”
The officer frowned, almost pitying. “You’re in shock. We’ll get you checked out.”
“No—no, please—please—listen to me—”
But they weren’t listening.
They weren’t hearing her at all.
Beck’s voice echoed behind her as he fought the officers. “DON’T TAKE HER—DON’T YOU TOUCH HER—IZZY!”
She twisted around enough to see him pinned against the stucco wall, eyes wild, chest heaving, pure desperation carved into every line of his body.
“Beck—” she choked, reaching out as if her fingers could somehow close the distance.
“I’LL FIND YOU!” he shouted, voice cracking. “I SWEAR IT—I’LL FIND YOU, IZ—”
The door slammed behind her.
A cruiser door opened.
Hands guided her inside.
Izzy’s palms pressed against the window glass as Beck’s voice faded behind the rising roar of the engine.
Her heart broke cleanly—precisely—like glass struck at its weakest point.
When the cruiser pulled away, she could still see him through the window.
Still fighting.
Still screaming her name.
And for the first time since she fled Maine…
Izzy truly thought she might never see him again.