When We Let Go by Delancey Stewart (read with me .txt) 📕

Adele called the next morning as I was getting ready for work to tell me that she didn’t need me to come in. I peered out the window. Blue sky, light breeze. Winter was not here yet. But there weren’t many visitors in the park and Adele and Frank were spending the day cooking for the search parties who’d been out combing the woods for Amanda Terry. Though the locals had organized and been searching the village and residential areas, we’d been advised to leave the more rugged areas of the park and backcountry to the officials, who were running search operations with helicopters, drones, and vehicles where the terrain allowed.

I had breakfast outside, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and looking up toward the towering trees. I hoped Amanda was safe somewhere out there. Though the woods were a comfort to me, I wouldn’t survive long alone and lost within them. I didn’t know where Amanda was, but the scuttlebutt at the diner indicated that the police weren’t certain about anything. Though they couldn’t locate her, there were no signs of a break in or a struggle, and nothing in recent weeks beyond the contested relationship with Connor that might suggest she’d run away. Her parents continued to point the finger directly at Connor, but the more I got to know him, the harder it was to imagine he would ever hurt anyone, let alone a teenaged girl.

I was going to see Connor tomorrow. At his house. My body tensed at the memory of the last time I’d been at his house. When I closed my eyes, I could see the way his body moved as he’d walked across the room, and how easily he’d hopped over logs and navigated the woods with Austin on his shoulders. I could even imagine how it might feel to press myself into his arms, run a finger across those glorious lips.

But I shouldn’t let my mind go there. That was definitely not the point of tomorrow night, I told myself. The point was to have a nice dinner with an attractive man, to get a momentary respite from the overwhelming crapstorm that my life had become. The point was to pretend, for a little while, that I was not a woman on the verge of becoming destitute and living in a trailer for the rest of my life, and to try not to envision Connor as a potential stalker or kidnapper.

I had decided that Connor was just an unfortunate tabloid target, that the thing with Amanda was some kind of strange misunderstanding, and that he was just a normal guy. A normal guy who wrote really creepy books. And who’d had a few run-ins with people around town.

I’d seen nothing to suggest that I should actually be worried, but I texted Miranda about my plans just in case, asking her to text me a couple times and send the police if I didn’t answer. Just in case. After a few minutes, her shocked replies became less shocked, and she agreed.

Until tomorrow evening, distraction would be the goal. Since I didn’t have to go to work, I decided to go for a hike instead. I’d just committed to this plan and gone inside when I heard the crunch of wheels on the dusty road outside. An unfamiliar car rested behind mine, but the men who climbed out of it and stood squinting at my half-built house and trailer were familiar enough.

I pulled my hair back and struggled into some jeans before the knock came at the door.

“Hi.” I stood looking at two police detectives on the other side of the screen.

“Mrs. Douglas? Do you have a few moments to speak with us?” The detective held a badge up against the screen for me to see.

“It’s Turner now,” I said, the correction coming as a reflex. I wanted nothing to do with Jack—not his person, not his name. I had no doubt that everything legal that pertained to the land I was standing on still said “Douglas,” and I needed to deal with that right away.

“Sorry, uh, Ms. Turner.” The emphasis on the ‘Ms’ was almost a question.

“Divorced,” I said, stepping out the door. “We can talk out here.” I pointed to the table.

“Thanks.” Both men sat stiffly at the picnic table. “I’m Detective Rawley. This is Jensen. We wanted to ask you a few questions about Connor Charles.”

I tried to keep my face passive. I had wondered if I’d have to talk to the detectives eventually. “All right,” I said.

“Do you know him?” Rawley asked, a pencil poised over a black moleskin notebook.

“I’ve met him a couple times,” I told them. “I don’t know him well.” I was almost shaking with nerves, and couldn’t figure out