The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 138

When a tear slipped from the corner of her eye, Harris’s breath caught. “Petty, are you awake?”

No answer came.

...

The night was quiet and deep. Laura gazed through the tall windows, watching Jay gather up the broken pieces of the treehouse out in the yard.

She turned away and looked at the table. The food and the porridge she had made had both gone cold.

Today was Laba Festival. Earlier that day, she’d called Franco and asked if he could come by to try the porridge she’d cooked just for him.

He told her he was busy.

Around dusk, Jay showed up at The Glades with several men. He explained that Franco had ordered the treehouse to be torn down for safety reasons.

For a second, Laura thought maybe Franco had come himself. But it was just Jay.

She missed Franco so much it made her chest ache. She called him again, but from sunset until half past eight, she tried three times and he never picked up.

Finally, she sent him a message: I also made your favorite dishes. I’m waiting for you to have dinner and porridge together. I don’t even have an appetite without you.

Franco actually replied. Just one word: Okay.

But he never showed up. Not even to taste a single bite.

The sound of a car engine drifted in from the yard. At this hour, Laura couldn’t imagine who else would visit. Her eyes lit up and she turned her wheelchair so fast she almost toppled out.

“Careful, Laura,” the maid rushed over and steadied her before she could fall.

Laura smiled, brushing her hair back, smoothing her clothes. “Go see if it’s Franco, will you?”

The maid peeked toward the entryway, then turned back with a smile. “It’s Franco.”

Laura couldn’t help the way her lips curled up. She pointed at the table. “Clear all this away and bring out two fresh bowls of hot porridge.”

The maid hurried off to the kitchen.

Laura stirred her porridge, glancing at him with gentle eyes. “Sit with me? Just try a little. See if you like it.”

But Franco didn’t take a seat. He gripped his cane, turned slowly, and walked toward the door. His voice was quiet and cold as falling snow.

“Don’t ever send Petty any more messages.”

Laura’s hand slipped and her spoon fell into the steaming porridge. In the reflection of the window, her face was pale as paper.

...

By early morning, the study at Misty Vale was still lit.

Jay knocked and stepped inside, caught off guard by the heavy smell of smoke.

He crossed the room and stopped behind Franco, who stood by the window, a cigarette between his fingers. In Jay’s hands was an old iron box, streaked with rust and age.

“Franco, you were right. There was something buried under the treehouse.”