ONE GOODthing about having lived in a small town was knowing there weren’t a lot of people on the streets in the afternoon. I’d turned my phone off because Charlie had called four times by the time I hit Main Street—yes, it was really called that. So much had changed in the years since the incident. Many of the shops that had been there almost fifteen years ago were gone, replaced by other things. Mr. Duncan had owned the Creamery, an ice cream parlor that only opened in the summer, but it wasn’t there anymore. Instead there was a Dollar Mega Store. Mr. and Mrs. Kwan had owned the dry cleaner shop, but they’d moved out and that building stood vacant, with the windows boarded up. It saddened me to see how much had changed.
I’d just reached the edge of town when the squad car pulled up beside me.
“Get in,” Clay ordered.
I did as he said, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling my seat belt.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Didn’t know where you were,” I replied tersely. “And I needed some air too.”
He had the decency to at least appear apologetic. “Sorry about that. When I looked at him, I pictured the accident. I couldn’t believe how close he’d come to dying, and it bugged me. After losing Dad, I think I’ve had enough of car crashes.”
Our father had died when his car spun out of control into the path of an oncoming car one winter night. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. I’d been eight when it happened, and Clay had been too young to understand anything more than Daddy wasn’t coming home again.
“So what happened?”
I sighed and leaned my head against the window. “His sister showed up. Charlie said that he wanted to go back to New York because that’s where everything was for him.”
Clay pulled the car over to the curb, turned off the engine, and pinned me with a stare. “Is that exactly what he said?”
“He said it was closer and going for book tours would be easier.”
“And what did you tell him?”
A shrug of my shoulders was the only answer I could give.
“You didn’t say anything, did you?” Clay blew out a breath. “So you’re going to let him get on a plane and leave, then go back to your place and hide yourself away for the rest of your life? Is that what you want?”
I turned to glare at Clay. “Yes!” I shouted.
“Why in the hell would you want that?” he demanded.
“Because it’s easier than….” I lowered my voice. “Than being hurt again.”
Clay dropped back, banging against the headrest. He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered something under his breath. Then, without looking at me, his voice so soft I could barely hear it, he said, “Life is hurt, Matt. We hurt when Dad died. We hurt when you were assaulted. We hurt when you cut yourself off from your family. We either learn to deal with it or we don’t really live anymore.”
We sat there as I mulled over his words. Clay made sense, but to my mind, I’d had enough hurt to last me my whole life already and couldn’t be sure I had it in me to deal with more.
“Matt?”
“Please take me home,” I whispered as the first raindrops began to fall.
Clay stopped talking. He put the car into gear and drove me home. I got out and closed the door and, without looking back, walked inside. I heard him pull away a few minutes later. I took a seat on the couch and stared out the window at the drizzle that threatened to become more as the night wore on. Somewhere along the way, I guess I drifted off.
Thunder cracked overhead, startling me from sleep. The storm had begun in earnest and the rain poured down, drenching everything. The dark weather mirrored my mood. I glanced over at the clock, surprised to see it had gotten to be almost eight already. Everything—from my head to my feet—ached. Despite the discomfort, I walked through the house several times, touching my items, remembering how they’d all come into my life. The books Charlie had given me had me stopping at the shelf they were on. I ran my fingers over them, tempted to take down book four—Where the Bodies Grow Wild—and immerse myself in a bit of fiction for a while, but all I could think of was the fact that Charlie had left.
That night when I went to bed—a vow on my lips that tomorrow would be better—sleep took forever to come. Instead I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. The storm outside continued to rage, now with high winds adding to the cacophony of the night. The rain pelted the sheet metal roof, sounding like hammer taps. I usually enjoyed storms, but not tonight. All I really wanted was peace and quiet, something I hadn’t really had since meeting Charlie. It would be good that he left. It might take me some time to accept it, but once I had, I’d see it was for the best. That thought in my mind, I finally slept.
Nightmares were common for me. Mr. Jackson had given my mind fodder to generate an apparently endless supply of them. Tonight wasn’t an exception. Normally everything started in my old car. It went as it always did, me driving with him in the passenger seat, but it quickly became the thing that still haunted me. His hands on me, his mouth. This dream started somewhere new. My property. It had always been a sanctuary to me, a place I would be safe. Not this time. He stalked me through the woods, laughing as I bolted in a panic. No matter how quickly I went, his breath was on my neck. He found my screams funny as I cried out for someone to save me.
Then he was there, grabbing me, pulling me against him. I no longer felt the icy fingers; instead warmth surrounded me, shielding me from everything else.
“He can’t hurt you, Matt,” a voice whispered close to my ear. “He won’t ever be able to hurt you again. I promise.”
The noises faded into the background. Mr. Jackson vanished like woodsmoke in a breeze. Everything went silent around me. The only thing that hadn’t changed was being held, almost cradled. Tears stung my eyes at the memories of how much I wanted this after what that bastard did to me. Instead I had sat there for hours, asking myself what I’d done wrong. What had I said or done to make him think I wanted that with him? It took years for that chill to finally dissipate, though every now and again a dream would bring it back full force. At this moment, however, someone held me, told me only Mr. Jackson was at fault.
As I sank into the feelings of love and caring, I finally dared to look up. Honestly, in dreams like this, Clay would be the person I’d usually see. He had tried so hard to protect me when he could, even when we were kids. But when deep-set brown eyes met mine and a crooked smile greeted me….
