---- Chapter 8 No.8 Clare sat in the car, the doors locked, and waited. The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving her feeling hollowed out and weary. It was as if the poison of her old life had followed her here, determined to taint her sanctuary. She looked at her scarred hands on the steering wheel. She had escaped New York, escaped Chase, but the ghosts were relentless. When Ben finally got back to the car, his face was grim. "She's gone," he said. "The police took her. They're getting her a psychiatric evaluation. She kept asking for Chase." "Is she... okay?" Clare asked, the question tasting like ash in her mouth. "No," Ben said quietly. "I don't think she is." He started the car. "Let's go home." The next day was the day the wedding was supposed to have been. Clare had forgotten until a notification popped up on her phone, a calendar reminder she'd never deleted. "Our Forever Begins." + The irony was a bitter pill. ---- She expected to feel a pang of sadness, of loss. Instead, she felt nothing. A vast, quiet indifference. That life, that bride, it was someone else. A character in a story she was no longer reading. She spent the day in the small art studio Isolde had set up for her, a space with a potter's wheel and shelves of clay. She had started throwing pots, the feeling of the cool, wet clay spinning beneath her hands a grounding, meditative force. Her hands weren't beautiful anymore, but they were strong. They could create. She worked for hours, losing herself in the rhythm of it. By the end of the day, a dozen misshapen bowls and vases sat on the shelves, imperfect but whole. They were hers. Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. Chase, again. He was like a virus It was a photo. A screenshot of a flight confirmation. New York to Los Angeles. For today. He was here. A cold knot formed in her stomach. She walked out of the studio and found Isolde on the deck, a glass of wine in her hand. "He's here," Clare said, showing her the phone. "In L.A." Isolde's expression hardened. She took a sip of her wine. "Let ---- him come. This house has very good security. And a pack of very expensive lawyers on retainer." She looked at Clare. "Are you afraid?" Clare thought about it. The fear was there, a low hum beneath the surface. But it wasn't the crippling terror she had felt on the mountain. It was different now. It was the fear of an annoyance, a disruption. Not a threat to her very being. "No," Clare said, and she was surprised to find it was the truth. "I'm just... tired of him." "Good," Isolde said. "That's the beginning of the end." Clare went back to her room. She pulled out a large sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. She began to draw. She drew the memory of the mountain, the dark trees, the cold stars. She drew the face of a man in a car, his features twisted by cruelty. She drew a woman walking away, into the sunrise. When she was finished, she tore the page from the sketchbook. She walked to the fireplace in the living room, struck a match, and set the drawing on fire. She watched the paper curl and blacken, the images of her past turning to smoke and ash. It was a final, quiet goodbye. She was ready for whatever came next.