Twenty-Two
Blaine
“We’re pretty sure she’s in Spain now, but where exactly we don’t know yet. Sorry, boss.”
I gritted my teeth and pressed “end” on the call, clenching my fist so tight around the phone the casing protested.
Four months. It had been four months since I came home to an empty house and a note that damn near tore my guts out, and I was no closer to finding Mira than I had been then.
Let me be free, she’d written. Perhaps if she had left me before I bared my soul to her, before I realized that she was the one person in this damn world that could ever make me feel whole, I could have let her go. I would have at least tried to. But not now—not when I’d finally tasted what true happiness was like. I couldn’t give that up again—I couldn’t give her up without destroying myself.
