Chapter 158
Chapter 158
The police cruiser felt colder than the motel room had, colder than the nighttime air outside. Izzy sat motionless, hands trembling on her lap, her breath fogging faintly against the window. She couldn’t stop staring at the parking lot shrinking in the distance—shrinking until Beck was nothing but a human-shaped blur pinned to a wall by three officers, his voice lost to the wind.
Her chest hurt. Literally hurt. Like something inside her had split open and refused to close.
“Ma’am,” the officer driving said gently, as though addressing a frightened animal, “we just want to make sure you’re okay.”
She didn’t answer.
Her throat felt raw. Words scraped against the inside lining like sandpaper.
The female officer in the passenger seat turned toward her. Her face was kind. Not cruel, not suspicious—just tired in the way people look when they carry other people’s tragedies for a living.
“You’re safe now,” she repeated softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. We’re here to help.”
Izzy almost laughed.
Help.
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, swallowing a broken sound. The baby fluttered inside her—not a kick, just the shifting of something new, something fragile and alive. A reminder. A plea.
She whispered, “Please don’t make me go back to him.”
The female officer’s brows pulled together. “No one’s sending you anywhere. We just want to evaluate the situation. Your fiancé—”
“He’s NOT my fiancé,” Izzy said abruptly, panic cracking through the numbness. “I never agreed. I never said yes. He forced—he—”
“We understand that you’re overwhelmed,” the officer cut in softly. “Trauma can confuse things.”
Izzy’s stomach pitched.
They didn’t believe her.
They thought she was unstable.
Just like Dick had planned.
She leaned her forehead against the cold window, her breath fogging the glass. Outside, the dark woods blurred into one continuous shadow. Every tree looked like a sentry watching her. Every passing headlight felt like someone closing in.
The cruiser turned off the interstate onto a small road. She recognized nothing—not the signs, not the storefronts they passed, not the glowing gas station in the distance.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She was being taken somewhere she couldn’t escape from.
A station. A place with locked doors. Cameras. Phones she’d never be allowed to use.
And Dick would find her.
He always found her.
The car slowed, pulling into a parking lot where a police station sat under overly bright outdoor lights. The building was neat, quiet, strangely ordinary—nothing like the terror unfurling inside her.
The officer opened Izzy’s door.
Her knees nearly buckled stepping out.
“Take your time,” the woman officer murmured, placing a steadying hand on Izzy’s shoulder.
Her touch was gentle. That made it worse. Kindness always made Izzy cry faster than cruelty.
Inside, the station smelled like coffee, cleaning spray, and paper. A radio murmured quietly behind the front desk. A few officers looked up as they entered, eyes flicking between Izzy and the two escorting her.
“She’s not under arrest,” the female officer clarified immediately, sensing Izzy’s panic. “She’s here for a welfare check.”
Izzy’s breath hitched.
Welfare check.
Evaluation.
Mental instability.
Pregnancy in distress.
The narrative Dick had already crafted.
The narrative she was now trapped inside.
A young officer stepped forward. “Ma’am, we’re going to take you to a private room where you can sit, get some water, and talk to someone.”
Izzy didn’t want to go anywhere private.
She wanted Beck.
Her vision blurred again, tears slipping down before she could wipe them away.
The room they guided her into was small, lit by a single overhead light that buzzed softly. There was a plain table. Two chairs. A box of tissues. A pitcher of water and a plastic cup.
It looked exactly like a room for questioning.
They shut the door behind her.
Izzy tensed, staring at the metal handle.
It wasn’t locked—but it might as well have been.
She sat down slowly, pressing a hand to her abdomen without thinking. The baby was still. Quiet. Waiting. Depending on her to make the right choices.
But she didn’t know what choices those were anymore.
After several minutes, the door opened again. The female officer returned, now seated across from her with a soft sigh.
“Isabella,” she began gently.
“Isabelle actually,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please just call me Izzy.”
The officer nodded. “Izzy. I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay? You’re not in trouble. We just need to understand what’s going on.”
Izzy nodded, though her heart pounded hard enough to hurt.
“How long have you been away from home?”
Izzy swallowed. “A while. I—I left on my own. I wasn’t taken.”
“Where were you headed?”
“I don’t know. Just… away.”
The officer studied her carefully. “Your fiancé said you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. And that the pregnancy has made things more difficult—emotionally, and physically.”
Izzy’s breath caught.
Her eyes widened. She gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles blanched.
“How does he know I’m pregnant?” she whispered.
The officer blinked. “He said you told him. That you left in a moment of confusion.”
“I didn’t tell him,” Izzy breathed. “I didn’t tell anyone but—”
She stopped herself.
Beck.
Only Beck knew.
Beck, who was now in handcuffs.
Beck, who had fought for her.
Beck, who had screamed her name until she disappeared from sight.
Tears welled hot in her eyes.
“Izzy,” the officer said quietly, “were you in danger with this man? With Beck?”
Izzy’s head snapped up. “NO. No—Beck saved me. Protects me. Dick is the danger. Dick Dane. Please, please listen to me—he killed someone. I think he killed more than one person. I think he’ll kill me too if you send me back—”
“Okay,” the officer said soothingly, lifting a hand. “Okay. Slow down. I’m listening.”
But Izzy could see doubt in her eyes.
And she knew why.
Dick Dane was wealthy. Connected. Charismatic. Calm. Publicly grieving his dead wife and son. Publicly devastated by Izzy’s “disappearance.”
Izzy Clarke was a runaway chef with no ID, no address, a history she couldn’t verify, and a pregnancy that looked… messy.
The perfect victim
or
the perfect unreliable narrator.
A sob clawed up her throat. She pushed her hands into her hair, gripping fistfuls of it.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t send me back with him. I’m begging you. He’ll hurt me. He’ll take the baby. Please—please believe me—”
The officer leaned forward, voice gentler now. “Izzy… we’re not sending you anywhere tonight. We need to process statements from both you and Beck.”
Izzy froze.
“Beck?” she echoed.
“He’s in holding temporarily,” the woman said. “Not under arrest. Just separated until we understand the dynamics.”
Izzy’s chest loosened just enough for air to slip in.
“He asked about you,” the officer added softly. “He kept saying, ‘Please make sure she’s okay.’ Over and over.”
Izzy covered her mouth with her hand as a sob slipped out.
“Can I see him?” she whispered.
The officer hesitated. “Not yet. But I’ll check with the supervising sergeant.”
Izzy nodded hard, tears spilling freely now.
The officer stood. “I’ll bring you some crackers and something to drink. It’s been a long night.”
When she exited, Izzy sagged over the table, shaking. Every part of her hurt—her chest, her head, her throat. She pressed her hand to her belly again, whispering to the small life inside her:
“I won’t let him get you. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.”
A soft knock came at the door. Izzy straightened, wiping her face with her sleeve.
The officer returned—alone—holding a bottle of water and a small packet of crackers.
She placed them on the table and sat down again. “I talked to the sergeant. He’ll allow a supervised check-in with Beck for a few minutes. Just to ease both your nerves.”
Izzy’s breath stopped.
“Now?” she whispered.
The officer nodded. “If you feel up to it.”
Izzy nodded again, even harder. “Yes. Please. Please—I have to see him.”
“Alright,” the woman said gently, rising. “Let’s go.”
Izzy stood on unsteady legs, following her through the hallway. The lights hummed overhead. Every footstep echoed. She felt like she was floating, or dreaming, or cracking open from the inside.
They paused outside a door with a reinforced window.
“I’ll be right here,” the officer said quietly.
Izzy nodded.
The door opened.
And Beck was there—sitting on the bench behind the bars, head in his hands, looking defeated in a way she had never seen him.
When he looked up…
God.
His eyes were red-rimmed, desperate, shining with pain and hope and relief all at once.
“Izzy,” he breathed.
Her heart broke again—cleanly, catastrophically.
She didn’t know if anything could be fixed.
She didn’t know if safety existed anymore.
She didn’t know what future waited for them.
But in that moment—seeing him alive, seeing him trying, seeing him still fighting—she knew one thing with absolute, earth-shattering certainty:
She wasn’t giving up.
Not now.
Not after everything.
Not when Beck would walk through hell for her.
“Beck,” she whispered, stepping forward until her hands were wrapped around the cold bars.
And for the first time in hours, she could breathe again.