“Must be hers,” I whisper, tiptoeing closer.
I just need to see with my own eyes that she’s okay, then I can pull this thorn of dread from my heart.
Taking a moment to scan the neighborhood, I ease my knapsack over my head so it’s secure against my back, then grip hold of the drainpipe, ignoring the deep throb pecking at my clavicle as I haul myself up, scaling it like a ladder. I lift onto her window ledge and inch toward the opening plagued by the gray, gauzy curtain frolicking at its entrance.
Peeling it back, I peek inside.
The riot of colorful clutter warms my heart, and I immediately know it’s Gael’s room.
I smile at the array of vibrant scarves draped over her four-poster bed, the blown glass sculptures in all colors of the rainbow decorating every flat surface, and the assortment of rugs spread across the floor—none woven with less than three bright colors. Various bits of art hang on the walls, mostly abstract or nature scenes that remind me of the tiny orchard we visited.
The place she once shared with her papa.
My gaze is lured to a large piece hanging above her writing desk, so unlike the other pictures.
This one is a painting ofpeople.
Of Gael—aureate curls a cropped swirl around her face while she beams one of her intoxicating smiles—held in the arms of a man dressed in a gray robe.
I drag a shuddering breath, gaze transfixed on the man’s hairless head. On the upside down v etched into the spot between his eyes.
Memories flash, loud and boisterous, gouging their claws into the gnarly scars on my heart …
A big man walks toward me and the boy. His head is shiny, and there’s one of those wood-cutting things hanging from his hand. I think it’s called an axe.
Why is there red stuff dripping from it?
“No …” I whimper, the word barely audible past the clog in my throat as that memory continues to hack and hack andhack …
“Get out of the way, kid. Mercy is not preserved for those who stand against the stones.”
The boy runs forward with the sharp thing held above his head. His scream stands out the most ... until Mommy makes a louder sound at the same time the axe is swung.
He stops.
I push to my feet, try to follow ...
Watch him fall.
Watch the light leave his eyes.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t stop staring at his big, bright smile—much the same as Gael’s.
A man who loved his daughter. Who climbed fruit trees with her and gave her all of herbestmemories …
Then took my brother from me.
I stumble back a step, my foot sliding off the edge of the windowsill, hand whipping out to snatch hold of the drainpipe before gravity can land her deadly blow. I slam against the wall, a pained sound slipping free.
“Hello?”
Gael …
There’s a small sniffle, then, “Is someone there?”
Her voice comes at me from inside the room, shoving me into action.
Teetering somewhere on the precipice of losing myself entirely, I scurry down the pipe, body and mind trapped beneath a shroud of numb oblivion.
