Chapter 4 No.4

The days that followed were a series of quiet goodbyes.

Jaycee went through her social media accounts first. She didn't delete them; that was too dramatic. It would invite questions. Instead, she methodically unfollowed Cohen's entire circle. His friends, his family, the business associates she'd tried so hard to impress.

She muted their stories, removed their posts from her feed. A digital culling. The noise of their perfect lives faded into silence.

Her world became small and quiet.

A few days later, a message request popped up on Instagram from a name she didn't recognize. She opened it.

It was a picture of a diamond ring. A new one. A massive, ostentatious yellow diamond on Hillary's hand. Cohen's hand was holding hers. The background was the living room of their condo. Her former home.

The message was from Hillary, using a friend's account.

He said he wanted to make things right. To start over. I hope you can be happy for us.

Jaycee stared at the picture. The ring was bigger than hers had been.

She felt nothing.

It was like looking at a picture of two strangers. The part of her that would have been shattered by this was already dead. It had died in that hospital room.

She took a screenshot, saved it to a hidden folder on her phone, and then blocked the account.

She didn't reply. Her silence was its own answer.

One afternoon, her mother's next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gable, came over with a casserole. She was a kind, bustling woman who had known Jaycee since she was born.

"How are you holding up, dear?" she asked, her eyes full of genuine sympathy.

"I'm okay."

"I saw that boy of yours leave the other day," Mrs. Gable said, lowering her voice. "Cohen. He came by. Sat in his fancy car across the street for an hour. Then drove off."

Jaycee's back stiffened.

"He and that other one, the blonde," Mrs. Gable sniffed. "Always thought there was something off about her. The way he looked at her. It wasn't right. You deserved better, Jaycee. Your mother always said so."

The words hung in the air. Your mother always said so.

She had been blind, but her mother had seen. And she had said nothing, for her daughter's fragile happiness.

"He was my whole world," Jaycee said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

"He shouldn't have been," Mrs. Gable said gently. "The world is much bigger than one man."

That night, Jaycee couldn't sleep. She found herself in her mother's room, the scent of lavender now faint, almost gone.

She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes.

Sleep finally came, and with it, a dream.

She was a little girl again, sitting on the porch swing. Her mother was pushing her, humming a soft tune. The sun was warm on her face. Cohen was there, a teenage version of himself, smiling at her from the lawn. In the dream, he was kind. He was safe. He walked over and took the swing ropes from her mother, pushing her gently.

"I'll always take care of you, Jaycee," he said.

She woke up with tears on her cheeks. The warmth of the dream faded, leaving a cold, hard ache in its place.

The memory was a lie. He hadn't promised to take care of her. He had promised to own her.

The dream wasn't a longing for the past. It was her subconscious showing her the fantasy she had clung to. The hope he had given her, only to crush it so completely. It was the giving of the hope that was the cruelest part.

The next morning, she tackled the last of her mother's belongings. The junk drawer in the kitchen. Old receipts, rubber bands, expired coupons.

At the very bottom, she found a small, folded piece of paper. It was a veterinarian's bill.

It was dated six months ago. The patient's name was Caesar. The owner, Hillary Peterson.

Jaycee unfolded it. It wasn't a bill for vaccinations. It was for an emergency visit. The notes section was brief.

Patient presented with unprovoked aggression. Attacked another dog at park. Owner advised muzzle and behavioral consultation. Owner declined.

Jaycee's blood ran cold.

Hillary knew. She knew her dog was dangerous. She had lied. And Cohen had believed her. Or he hadn't cared enough to question it.

Jaycee stared at the paper. It was proof. It was the truth.

Her phone rang. It was an unknown number, but local. She answered.

It was Cohen. He must have gotten a burner phone.

"Jaycee, stop ignoring me. This is insane. I went by your mom's house. You weren't there. We need to handle her will, her assets..."

"She didn't have any assets, Cohen," Jaycee said, her voice flat. "She had a small house with a mortgage and a ten-year-old car. There's nothing for you to manage."

"That's not the point," he said, frustrated. "What about the ring? My mother's ring?"

He meant the engagement ring. It hadn't been his mother's. It had been purchased a week before the proposal. She had seen the receipt by accident. Another casual lie.

"I don't have it," she said.

"What do you mean, you don't have it? It's worth a fortune."

"Then you should have taken better care of it," she said.

She hung up the phone and tossed the vet bill onto the table.

This was it. The final, absolute confirmation. He didn't care about her. He didn't care about her mother. He cared about a ring. About assets. About control.

She had every reason she would ever need to leave.