Page 2 of Cut Off
The hollow echo of my footsteps follows me through the foyer, past the living room with furniture I didn’t pick out, into the kitchen where I shrug off my coat and shoes and grab a beer from the fridge. The first sip tastes bitter. I should eat something, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn.
My phone buzzes.
Brooks:You good?
Me:I’m fine.
A lie so practiced I almost believe it myself. I’m about to crack a second beer when the doorbell rings. Maybe it’s my dad coming to deliver another pep talk? Except it can’t be because he and Mom are out of town. I check the security camera on my phone and roll my eyes.
Two police officers stand on my porch.
Fuck.Did my neighbor call the cops again? It’s always something—too many cars parked on the street. Music at thepool. My motorcycle revved too loud. Yeah, I like to party. Who doesn’t? They need to get a life already.
With a groan, I wrench the door open. “What now?”
I don’t know either officer—I hadn’t lived in Dickens for years before I moved back three months ago, but the older one, gray at the temples with tired eyes that probably have seen too much, steps forward. “Jonah Holt?”
I nod. “Yep. It can’t be a noise complaint—I haven’t even been here in weeks.”
“No, sir.”
Relief washes through me, followed immediately by confusion. “Then why are you here?” I’m pretty sure the team assistant paid my speeding ticket from last month.
Shit. I hope she did.
The officers exchange a look I can’t read. The younger one shifts on his feet while his partner checks a tablet he’s holding. “Mr. Holt, do you know a Rosie Anders?”
The name hits me like a body check to the boards. Rosie—my first love, vanished without explanation ten years ago, ripping my guts out in the process.
Hell, yeah, I know her.
“Rosie?” I manage, my voice cracking like a teenager. “I haven’t spoken to her in almost a decade.”
The younger officer’s eyes flash pity. “She was in an accident two months ago.”
My mind struggles to process his words. Two months? Accident? “What happened to her?”
“Sir, perhaps we should discuss this inside.”
“No.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “Tell me now. Is she—” I can’t even say the word.
The older officer nods once, confirming what I already knew from their faces. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Holt.”
A strange numbness spreads through my chest. Rosie.Dead.For two months. While I’ve been playing a game and feeling sorry for myself, she’s been... gone.
She walked out on me—on us—and I’ve never forgotten it. Now, I don’t even get to see her, get closure, or say goodbye?
“I don’t understand,” I say finally.
The older one clears his throat. “It took the authorities some time to connect your association to her.”
“Why are you telling me this now? What does this have to do with me?”
The officers exchange another one of those looks that freezes my blood.
“Mr. Holt,” the older one urges, “can we please come inside?”
“I guess, sure.” I open the door and usher them to the couch. On autopilot, I do what my mother taught me to do with company and ask, “Want a drink? Beer? Water?”
