Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 629

The fire at the little Victorian house hadn’t spread far. Since it was ruled an accident, hardly anyone paid attention—just a couple of short blurbs in the local news that no one really read.

Ryan stumbled back home, completely lost. How was he supposed to break this to Clara? He rubbed his temples, thinking maybe he should just drive over and see her. Right now, she needed someone. He should be there for her.

He didn’t know that Clara had already made her way to the scene, almost as soon as he left.

She stood under the old trees, watching firefighters move in and out. People passing by whispered to each other, “Burned alive—no family showed up. Probably just some homeless guy.”

“This place has been empty for ages,” someone else replied. “Never saw a single light on. Guess some vagrant snuck in and… well, that was it.”

“Such a shame. Only twenty-six. So young.”

Clara leaned against the trunk, eyes blank, hand curling tighter at her side. What little color she had left drained from her face. She turned and walked away, disappearing into the street as if she’d never been there.

Her clothes were still the ones from last night, mud splattered up her jeans, looking worn down and exhausted. She found her car right where she’d left it, got in, and started driving back. But she barely made it ten miles before her car clipped a rock by the side of the road.

Clara took a shaky breath, grabbed the water bottle on the passenger seat, and tried to calm herself down. But her heart felt like it was being ripped apart, the pain so sharp she could barely breathe.

She made it back to the little roadside motel. Lying on the bed, she couldn’t help it—she called Z again.

His phone was still off. It was like he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

No trace, no message, nothing. Maybe no one would ever remember him—except her.

He had to disappear on the one day she felt the most guilty.

Her stomach twisted with pain so bad she broke out in a cold sweat.

That’s when Ryan called, his voice way too cheerful to be real.

She stayed in bed for two days, barely moving.

On the second evening, the motel owner knocked on her door, voice careful and a little worried.

“Ms. Clara, are you feeling okay? Should I get you some medicine? You haven’t ordered any food, and there’s no kitchen here. Have you eaten anything?”

Clara’s world spun. She forced herself out of bed, legs barely holding her up, and opened the door.

The owner took one look at her and nearly jumped back.

“Oh my god, don’t die in my motel, please! I’ll call a doctor. Your brother told me to keep an eye on you before he left. Seriously, if someone dies here, who’s ever going to want to stay again?”

Clara tried to smile, but everything went dark at the edges of her vision. She couldn’t get a word out.