How old is this photograph? I look for a date stamp but come up blank, then focus on the young men again.
With such undeniable similarities, the man with the hen must be related to my mysterious axe-wielding stranger in the woods. They have the same smile dimples, eyes, and dark hair.
I’m just about to turn another page when the bats take flight in a blur of commotion. I scream, dropping the book and the flashlight. The air shifts around me. Wings and claws tangle in my hair. Panic beats at my chest, only made worse by the bite of pain in my arms and legs.
Curling into a ball, I bury my face in the crook of my arm while the bats fly overhead. And then, silence falls like a thick blanket on my tender body.
The air stills.
In fact, it’s so still that you could hear a pin drop over my trembling exhales.
I don’t move. I barely dare inhale a shaky breath. The flashlight has gone out, and the thickening shadows feed on the muted light. When another sob cuts through the sudden stillness, the darkness crawls closer to where I lie, bleeding and bruised, in the fetal position on the gritty floor.
I slowly push up to a sitting position and reach for the flashlight, but it’s broken. I rattle it again, but nothing happens. With a sigh, I collect the book and descend the steps.
The heat instantly swallows me up as my bare feet connect with the floor. I move to close the attic, but my attention snags on my scratched, bleeding arms. Countless more little cuts decorate my tanned legs. I’m a roadmap of beaded trails of blood.
Now that I’ve seen the destruction painted on my body, the stinging sensation threatens to buckle my legs, and it’s by some miracle that I manage to make it to my bedroom unscathed without anyone noticing me.
“What’s up, sweetheart?” Keith asks, startling me, as he enters the kitchen, dressed in a creased shirt and slacks. He retrieves a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and grabs a glass from the cupboard. Smooth without pulp. I’m the picky one who doesn’t like bits.
I wait while he pours himself a drink with his back to me.
“Why are you crying?” he asks.
I quickly wipe my wet cheeks. “I’m not crying.”
He turns and leans against the counter, loosening his tie. “Is this about your mom?”
Shame heats my cheeks, and I try to hide behind strands of my hair.
“I think you need to talk to her about the ballet.”
I should win the ‘Worst Daughter of the Year’ award for wanting to give up on my mom’s dream for me. She has dedicated so much time and energy to getting me the besttrainers and the best chances, and I don’t want to do it anymore.
Keith frowns at the window, and I follow his line of sight to see a leaf twirl against the glass, which strikes me as odd. We live in the city. My street has no trees, and the nearest park is a ten-minute bus journey away. The leaf must have traveled a far distance.
My stepdad opens the window to let in the summer breeze and traffic sounds. Someone shouts outside, then laughs.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he says, crossing his arms, tired after a long day at work. “She will understand. Give her a chance.”
Silence stretches between us. Mom left an hour ago for a night shift at the hospital, and Dominic and his brother are out somewhere.
Another gust of wind drifts in from the window, filling the kitchen with scents from the food truck down the street. My stomach rumbles on cue.
Movement in my periphery fills my vision, and I turn my head to see the leaf from earlier flutter beside Keith on the kitchen counter. He snatches it up, crushes it in his palm, and hums low in his throat.
When he lifts his gaze, I blink. His eyes are black.
It happens so fast—there and gone.
Throwing the ruined leaf in the sink, he then crouches in front of me. I search his eyes as he tucks my hair behind my ear, but they’re their usual color. I’m imagining things.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours?” His big hand lands on my thigh, making me stiffen. “You can talk to me, Camryn.”
I hold my breath when he reaches up with his free hand, touching my chin. Keith has never flirted with or looked at me before now. I don’t know what to do. It feels wrong—itiswrong—but I’ve been so down lately. I have no friends, my mom is upset with me for skipping ballet classes, and I… I don’t know. His touch feels…nice. The way helooksat me feels nice. Like I’m not a disappointment. Someone to ignore in the school halls. Someone to laugh at.
Another gentle breeze swirls around us. Keith’s lips brush against mine, and my heart slows to a heavy thud.
