angel - rafe cameron (outerbanks)

17 - ghost

chapter 45
ghost

the car was too quiet.

except for maddie's breathing — shallow, strained, uneven.

"maddie, you have to tell me something. anything."

angie's voice cracked. again.

for the past thirty minutes, she'd been asking questions in circles. what happened? who took you? where have you been? how did you get there? did someone help you? were you hurt? are you hurt?

but maddie just kept shaking her head. not a word had passed her lips—dry, cracked and drained of colour.

"i—uh—i'm not sure," she whispered now, voice rasping like it had to crawl up from the bottom of her lungs and claw itself from her throat. her eyes were glassy, unfocused. her knees were pulled tight to her chest in the back seat of rafe's suv, wrapped in his hoodie like it was the only barrier between her and the world.

angie turned back around slowly, exhaling like it hurt. her hands trembled in her lap. the silence felt too thick, like it was pressing against her ears. she sank into the passenger seat with a huff, pressing her fists into her temples. her whole body was tight, wired like a live current. she wanted to scream. or shake maddie. or collapse. or all three at once.

rafe glanced over from the driver's seat, watching her from the corner of his eye. he said nothing at first. just drove. headlights sweeping the dark stretch of coastal highway. hands steady on the wheel; but he could feel it—the shift in the air, the tension coming off angie like heat.

his hand moved before he even thought about it. it slid from the steering wheel to her leg. her breath hitched. he could hear it clear as day; so clear that he contemplated removing it. she didn't look at him, but her hand moved too—quick, desperate—covering his like she needed to hold onto something. they stayed like that; his thumb brushing slow circles over her thigh, her grip tight over his knuckles, like if he didn't anchor her, she'd float away. behind them, maddie coughed. the sound made angie flinch. it was hoarse, strangled even, and it made the pit in the younger girl's stomach sink even further than she could have imagined.

"she's in shock," rafe muttered. "i really don't think she remembers much of anything."

angie shook her head. "she remembers me."

"recognising and remembering aren't the same thing."

angie turned away, eyes burning. her grip on his hand softened. she is tired. too tired to fight him. too tired to admit that he's right.

they pulled into the driveway of the wood's house ten minutes later.

the house was dark. her mom's car gone. the porch light off. nothing but the flicker of the motion sensor light as rafe parked and killed the engine.

"we need to get her inside," angie whispered, already unclipping her seatbelt.

together they moved, slowly, carefully.

maddie barely registered the movement. her weight sagged between them, legs dragging, arms limp. angie's hand stayed under her elbow, guiding her like maddie had done for her when they were kids walking home from school in the rain.

they got her upstairs.

angie's bed hadn't been made, the sheets a tangle of stress and sleepless nights. she didn't care. she just pulled the covers back and eased maddie down into the mattress.

maddie let her.

rafe hovered in the doorway, unsure. angie didn't tell him to leave.

she sat on the edge of the bed, brushing damp hair out of maddie's face. "maddie, are you sure you don't remember anything?"