Chapter 4: Roads Blocked, Hearts Exposed

Halfway home, trouble found me again.

Trouble always did seem to find me, no matter how fast I ran.

Westin, driving his black pickup, pulled in front of my car and forced it to stop.

He revved the engine, dust swirling around him like a storm. Dust swirling.

“Is Miss McAllister inside?”

His voice carried over the rattle of the engine, impatient as ever.

Hearing that familiar voice, I instinctively recoiled.

My heart pounded, old fears rising up like ghosts.

I glanced at Faith—she was holding my thermos, but her eyes kept drifting outside.

Her hands were steady, but her gaze was restless, searching for something—or someone. Restless.

So I said, “Faith, I’m not feeling well. Go greet Captain Graves for me, loudly.”

I put as much authority into my voice as I could, hoping she’d get the hint.

Before I finished, she eagerly set down her mug.

She was out the door before I could blink, her excitement barely contained.

As soon as Faith cracked the door and stepped out, I heard Westin say, “Miss McAllister… why is it you?”

His voice shifted, the bravado draining away.

His delighted tone cut off abruptly.

I pictured his face, caught between hope and disappointment.

Faith explained I wasn’t feeling well.

Her voice was calm, almost soothing. I wondered if he even heard her.

Through the cracked door, I could see her standing tall, showing off her fair neck to Westin like a wild doe.

She tilted her head, sunlight catching in her hair, every inch the innocent beauty.

I’d underestimated Westin’s impulsiveness—he shoved Faith aside and climbed into my car.

The door slammed open, rattling on its hinges. He filled the space, all heat and urgency.

“Harper, what’s wrong? Where does it hurt? Your chest?”

He reached for me, hands surprisingly gentle, his brow furrowed in concern.

He was anxious, not faking it.

For all his faults, he couldn’t hide his worry.

For such a brash man, his movements were surprisingly gentle as he tried to touch my chest.

His touch was light, almost reverent. It made my skin crawl.

Suddenly, I remembered my second life.

The memory hit me—blood, pain, the sound of my own heartbeat fading.

I’d been a shield for Faith.

I was always the one to take the hit, to pay the price.

That bullet from Westin’s political enemy nearly pierced my heart.

I remembered the cold metal, the flash of pain, the way the world went silent.

After that, I was left with chronic chest pain.

Every breath was a reminder of what I’d lost.

A few steps and I’d cough up blood; I didn’t survive that winter.

I spent my last days watching the snow fall, wishing for a second chance.

Thinking of this, I wanted nothing more than to stab Westin in the chest with my hairpin.

The urge was sudden and fierce. I gripped the hairpin so tightly my knuckles ached.

My emotions churned inside, but I kept my face blank.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I said coldly, “Captain Graves, this is inappropriate!”

I put steel in my voice, daring him to push further.

Only then did Westin snap out of it.

He jerked his hand back, shame flickering across his face.

“Forgive me, I was just worried something had happened to you, not trying to offend…”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he seemed almost human.

As he spoke, he suddenly noticed the handkerchief beside me and froze.

His eyes narrowed, every muscle tensing.

I followed his gaze—and realized—

My heart dropped. I’d left myself exposed again.

The handkerchief Julian had returned to me still had a love poem tucked inside.

The corner of the paper peeked out, taunting me with its secrets.

The first line: ‘Cherry blossoms meet you.’

The words were embarrassingly earnest, written in my own looping script. Embarrassingly earnest.

A sappy poem I’d written for Julian on a whim.

I’d been so young, so hopeful. It felt like a lifetime ago.

The second line: ‘Longing runs deep.’

His handwriting was neat, almost elegant. The words stung more than any slap.

Signed S. Price, Julian’s signature.

The signature was bold, confident, as if he’d never doubted for a second.

This was his reply to me.

I stared at it, feeling the weight of all my past mistakes.

But in my third life, I don’t remember him ever responding to me so directly.

This was new—a thread I hadn’t seen before in the tangled web of our lives.

Either the game reset, or the players did. I wasn’t losing again.