He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 06

He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 06

[Owen’s POV]

I spent the night at a hotel. In the morning, I came home.

The door opened to a silence that felt wrong.

I was holding breakfast—her favorite breakfast burritos.

She used to sit at the table, unwrapping her utensils, and say, “Owen, the owner gave me extra hot sauce today. She said I always smile when I come in. Try it, it’s really good.”

I’d eat without looking up.

No nod, no reply.

But she’d keep talking anyway.

Now the table was empty.

I set the food down. And there they were: the divorce papers.

Her signature was already there. Her lawyer’s contact information was beside it.

Her handwriting was steady.

Like she’d made up her mind a long time ago.

My face went white. I called her. It went straight to voicemail.

A text from Becca popped up.

[Home yet? Ella okay?]

I stared at it.

I didn’t answer.

I ran to the bedroom. Her clothes were half gone. Her medicine was missing from the nightstand. Her skincare was gone from the bathroom.

In the study, all the speech therapy materials were bagged for trash.

Flashcards were scattered on top. One with her crooked handwriting:

[Owen, keep going today.]

My fingers trembled.

I picked it up. On the back was a little rabbit she’d drawn to make practice less boring. Next to it:

[When you can talk, I want your first word to be my name.]

I read that line and finally said it out loud.

“Ella.”

The house was empty. No one rushed to hug me. No one cried, “Owen, you said my name!”

I remembered her message from last night and ran to the front desk of our building.

“Was there an incident on the sixteenth floor last night?”

The clerk froze. “Mr. Brooks… you can speak?”

My voice cracked. “I asked if someone broke into my apartment.”

He pulled the security footage.

Three men at our door, punching in codes, using tools on the lock.

I finally saw what she’d gone through. Fresh out of the hospital, throat too raw to scream, locked in the bedroom, listening to her door being pried open.

And I’d been sending voice notes to Becca.

I had even written to Becca, [She’d make up anything.]

In the footage, police helped her out. She was pale as paper, shaking so hard she could barely stand.

They asked if she had family to call.

She shook her head.

I gripped the counter to keep from collapsing.

The clerk said quietly, “Mr. Brooks, your wife left with her suitcase. Looked like she was heading to the airport.”

Airport.

Those two words hit like a punch.

I ran out and called her again and again, but every call went straight to voicemail. I left voice messages, one after another.

“Ella, where are you?”

“I was wrong.”

“I can talk now.”

“Didn’t you always want to hear me say your name?”

“Ella.”

“Ella, can you hear me?”

My voice shook more with each one.

But every message came back with a red delivery error.

I froze. The phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor.

The screen still showed her last message to me.

[Please.]

I understood then.

It wasn’t a test.

It was her last cry for help.

The last time she ever trusted me with her fear.