The Lover’s Promise (No Exceptions #3)(18)
Author: J.C. Reed

Tiny drops fell from the sky

Like tears from the eye

Falling fast and hard

Until they hit the ground,

Gathering in a puddle,

In the darkness in which they lay idle.

She dares not step in

For fear she might fall in

And get swallowed up like the tears brushing her skin

And the pain trapped within

I turned the paper over and found no name, no signature, nothing to disclose the sender’s identity. I had no idea what to make of it. The poem made no sense. Who was she and why would anyone send anything like it? What did it even mean? New questions began to circle through my mind, as if I didn’t have enough already. For what seemed like an eternity, I stared at the paper, reading the text over and over again, until the words started to echo in my head like a twisted melody.

I wasn’t exactly a literary genius with an ability to interpret metaphors, but I knew and doubted that the poem was a mere weather forecast predicting that it was going to rain, because it already had been either raining or snowing in the past few days.

Could Jett have sent me the letter after realizing how much pain he had caused me? I hoped he didn’t. The thought that Jett might be playing with my mind again, without an explanation, without a single discussion that included the word “sorry”, while scaring the shit out of me, made me furious.

So, I considered another theory: what if the letter was intended for Sylvie?

I nodded to myself. It sounded so plausible I almost slapped my forehead for not taking it into account sooner. Sylvie had always attracted strange admirers. For all I knew, one of her exes might still be trying to win her back.

Oh, self-deception had never felt so good.

However, the problem with self-deception was that, while it could trick my mind into believing things that I knew weren’t the way I wanted them to be, my gut feeling could not be switched off. And right now, it told me that something was off. I just had to figure out what.

Maybe the fact that Sylvie’s admirers have never knocked at four in the morning to leave a letter. How’s that for starters, Stewart?

I groaned at the irritating voice in my head.

In the silence of the room, I almost jumped out of my seat when the teakettle made a loud, whistling sound. I removed it from the cooker. As I sat back at the table, biting my thumbnail, a horrible realization occurred to me. I scanned the letter again, my eyes stopping at the one sentence:

Tiny drops fell from the sky like tears from the eye.

An ice-cold shudder ran down my spine as I pictured the image of Gina’s dead face. It had been raining when Jett drove me home. Gina had been found dead with two dots painted on her face. What were the odds that they represented tears?

Oh, my God.

My mind raced a million miles an hour. If the letter was linked to Gina, I wasn’t safe. As much as I wished I’d just call the police, what could I possibly tell them? That someone sent me a poem?

Yeah, right. Totally life-threatening! They would send me home, laughing. Under different circumstances I would have laughed myself. The hysteria building at the back of my throat turned into a lump as hard as a rock. I had never felt so alone and scared, except when Nate attacked me and Jett saved my life.

Saved my life.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. The mere thought of him was enough to send my heart aching for him. My whole being pleaded with me to get that final proof that he’d never hurt me. Even if he was a primary suspect in a murder case, a part of me refused to believe that he’d ever harm a woman. For some inexplicable reason, a part of me continued to belong to him. A part I had no control over. A part that said we created a child together, and he deserved my trust. Whether I wanted it or not, he had always made me feel safe. When Jett saved me, he created a new me. Even though the detective had clear evidence, I couldn’t believe Jett would commit such a horrible crime. Then again, I didn’t know him particularly well.

I grabbed my phone from the table and stared at the screen. Still no text message. No call. Nothing to indicate he was still interested in a future together or that wanted me in his life. Weeks ago, whenever we’d meet, he’d text me. He couldn’t wait to call me or leave a naughty note inside my handbag for me to find at the most unfortunate moments. How things had changed. Disappointment washed over me at the thought that Jett had given up on us, that maybe he didn’t want me to contact him, which was why he cut our conversation so short, and for some reason the realization hurt me more than I had anticipated.

Why did I have to check for his calls, anyway? Why did I even miss him?

This constant need to see him even though I didn’t want to made no sense to me. The constant need to hear his voice even when I felt like pushing him away was testing my sanity. I wasn’t supposed to have those desires, because for all I knew he could still have killed Gina and sent me the cryptic letter. I knew I should be scared of him—not scared that I’d lose him. If only I could get rid of the pain his absence caused me and stop thinking about him once and for all. Maybe if I sent him a text and asked to come over now…

No, Stewart. Don’t you dare!

I took a sharp breath and pushed my cell phone across the table, as far away from me as possible. Contacting him again would be wrong. After all the things he kept from me, I wasn’t going to take the first step. There was no point in contacting him again when I had already given him a chance to explain his lies and justify his actions. Instead of removing my doubts, he had decided to leave me in the unknown.

No, contacting him now was not a possibility. Not when I’d see him in less than sixteen hours. Not when I had no idea if he was playing one of his games with me.

The truth was that even if Jett turned out to be a cold-blooded killer with bad intentions, I knew I’d still care for him. Stupid of me, but my heart would still beat for him. And for that very reason, I hated him, hated love, hated myself for being so weak. Because as much as I wanted to delude myself, I knew I had to get away from him—far, far away—rather than seek to lie in his arms and look into his beautiful green eyes.

Heck, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’d still love him even if he killed me.

Loving him was like drinking from a pond—this love would never get less, but after some time, stagnant water would become flat, infested, dirty, just like my feelings for him.

Outside, the sky slowly turned into early morning twilight as I sat in front of the television, watching a show about a dog with severe anxiety disorder. Maybe I could get a dog, just like the one on TV, whose only issue was being too overprotective.