[7 Weeks Separated, 2 Weeks Coma and 5 months Home]
Two weeks had dragged by like a slow crawl through broken glass. The lead on the silver SUV had turned into a frustrating dead end, Ethan had examined Margaret's car under the cover of night, even running his fingers along the bumper looking for a microscopic dent or a fresh coat of paint.
Nothing.
]
It wasn't her car that hit Annie, but Ethan's gut- honed by years of navigating the jagged edges of the Combs family, told him she was still the architect behind the tragedy.
The stress had carved deep lines into Ethan's face. He looked feral- unshaven, his green eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep and the manic intensity of his search.
He spent his days tailing Margaret, documenting every move with a detective's cold precision.
He found her pattern: The Wednesday House.
Every Wednesday, Margaret would drive to a secluded Tudor-style home on the outskirts of town. She would enter looking like the picture-perfect housewife-every red hair in place, her floral perfume practically trailing behind her. But three hours later, the woman who emerged was a stranger. Her poise was gone, replaced by a frantic, disheveled energy. Her expensive lipstick would be smudged across her mouth, her hair- usually a stiff crown of perfection, would be matted and wild, and she'd spend minutes in the car staring into the rearview mirror, desperately trying to put the mask of "Mrs. Combs" back on.
Ethan didn't know who lived in that house yet, but he knew Margaret was hiding a life that would burn her marriage to the ground.
The Hospital: 2:00 AM
The opportunity finally came on a rainy Tuesday night. Through a series of frantic texts, Ellie confirmed that Dylan had been called into an emergency surgery and Kyson, ever the self-involved son, had finally headed home to sleep.
The hospital was a tomb of hushed whispers and the rhythmic hiss-click of machinery. Ethan slipped through the side entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs. He bypassed the nurses' station, his shadow long and jagged against the linoleum, until he reached Room 412.
He pushed the door open. The sound of the ventilator- a steady, mechanical wheeze, nearly brought him to his knees.
"Annie," he breathed, his voice breaking.
He crossed the room in two strides. After seven weeks of silence- five of forced distance and two of this nightmare, seeing her was like being hit by a freight train.
Annie looked impossibly small in the center of the vast hospital bed. Her black hair was fanned out over the white pillow, making her fair skin look like translucent porcelain. There was a bandage wrapped around her head, and her blue eyes- the eyes that used to watch him with that shy, sweet hesitation, were sealed shut. Tubes snaked from her arms, and the rise and fall of her chest was entirely dictated by the machine.
Ethan reached out, his hand trembling as he hovered over hers. He didn't touch her at first, terrified that he might break what was left of her. Then, he let his fingers slide into hers. Her hand was cold.
"I'm here, Annie," he whispered, sinking into the plastic chair beside the bed. He pressed his forehead against the side of the mattress, his shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry. I'm sosorry I stayed away."
The bravado, the hot temper, the stubborn pride- it all vanished. He was just a boy holding the hand of the only person who made him want to be kind. He thought of her poetry, her candy, the way she shut down Riley's flirting just for him.
"You have to wake up," he rasped, his voice thick with tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed in front of anyone. "I'm finding out what she's doing, Annie. I'm finding the person who hurt you. But I can't do it if you aren't here to see it. I can't lose youagain."
He sat there for an hour, the only sound the mechanical breathing of the room, holding her hand as if he could anchor her soul to the earth by sheer force of will.
*~*~*~*~*
The following Wednesday, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Ethan sat in his truck, parked a street over, peering through the dense foliage of a weeping willow that partially obscured the Tudor house.
He waited three hours. His patience was a jagged thing, held together only by the memory of Annie's cold hand in the hospital. Finally, the heavy oak door groaned open.
Ethan leaned forward, his breath hitching. A man stepped out, leaning against the doorframe to light a cigarette. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a sharp, arrogant tilt to his head. As the man turned to lock the door, the sunlight hit his face, and Ethan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
The man was the spitting image of Kyson.
The same blonde hair, the same heavy brow, the same square jawline. But where Kyson looked like a pampered athlete, this man looked like a version of Kyson that had been dragged through the dirt and aged ten years in a blender. He was handsome, but there was a hollowness to his eyes- a look of desperate, quiet rot.
The man walked toward a beat-up bicycle chained to a porch railing. Ethan followed at a distance, watching as the man pedaled toward a dusty, flickering neon sign a mile away: O'Malley's Corner Mart.
The shop was a dump. Stale air and the smell of old grease hit Ethan as he pushed inside. The man was already behind the counter, slapping on a name tag that read Brandon.
Ethan grabbed a random bag of chips and a lukewarm soda, stepping up to the counter. Up close, the resemblance to Kyson was even more jarring. It was like looking at a ghost.
"That all?" Brandon asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He didn't even look up.
"Yeah," Ethan said, leaning against the counter, trying to keep his voice casual despite the thunder in his chest. "Rough shift? You look like you've had a long morning."
Brandon snorted, finally meeting Ethan's green eyes. "Something like that. Perks of the job."
"I get it," Ethan nodded, fishing for a hook. "At least you've got a girl to go home to, right? Saw a nice car at your place earlier. Silver SUV?"
Brandon's eyes narrowed instantly. The laziness vanished, replaced by a sharp, defensive edge. "Who's asking? You a cop or a stalker?"
Ethan felt the heat rise in his neck- the old Ethan would have leaped over the counter. But he forced a smirk, tilting his head in a way he'd seen Riley do a thousand times.
"Neither," Ethan said, dropping his voice into a softer, flirtatious register. He let his gaze linger on Brandon's face a second too long, forcing a blush he hoped looked like shyness. "Actually... I was just hoping the SUV belonged to a sister. Or a mom. I was kind of hoping you were single."
Brandon froze, his eyebrows shooting up. He scanned Ethan's face, his posture relaxing from 'threat' to 'amused.' He gave a short, rough laugh. "Oh. That's what this is?"
"Is it working?" Ethan asked, playing the part of the interested guy with a desperate, internal cringe.
Brandon chuckled, shaking his head as he bagged the chips. "Sorry to disappoint, kid. You're not exactly my type, and yeah- I'm spoken for. Heavily. By a woman who'd probably pull your eyes out if she saw you looking at me like that."
"Lucky her," Ethan muttered, taking his change. "What was the name again? I'm Ethan."
"Brandon," the man replied, already turning back to a stack of cigarettes. "Now get out of here before my 'lucky lady' shows up and catches you hitting on her man."
Ethan walked out of the store, his heart racing. Brandon. He got into his truck and gripped the wheel until it groaned. He had a name. He had a face. And he had the confirmation that Margaret wasn't just having an affair- she was seeing a man who could be Kyson's twin.