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k her out.
Oz
I ENTER THE living room and there’s one major player missing: Emily. “Should I be concerned?”
Olivia rests her head against the couch and closes her eyes. “She’s in the bathroom. The child has had enough to deal with and needs some time alone.”
Because when I want time alone, I think toilets. “She’s not a child.”
Emily’s far from it. That body she has—those curves, the way her hips move when she walks, the way I fantasized about worshipping that flat stomach if we had privacy and she wasn’t Eli’s daughter—that’s no child.
Olivia cracks open an eye, but before she can respond, Cyrus jumps in. “Oz is right. She’s not the two-year-old that used to follow you around in your tomato garden.”
“If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it,” Olivia answers. “Both of you.”
Mom offers Olivia a hand. “You need to rest. I’ll wake you when we hear from Eli.”
The strain of the past few hours weighs Olivia down as she accepts. Together, they leave the room. Emily can’t get out of here fast enough, in my opinion. Olivia will use the strength she needs to defeat the cancer in order to maintain appearances for Emily.
When the door to Olivia’s bedroom shuts, I appraise Cyrus as I shift the chess pieces in my head. The board in front of me is complicated and I don’t have many pieces to begin with. “What do you need me to do?”
“Entertain Emily.” Cyrus reaches behind the recliner and brings out his double-gauge shotgun. “Didn’t think I should keep it in sight with her ready to jump out of her skin.”
I chuckle. “Good call. How long has she been in the bathroom?”
“Long enough that someone she trusts should check to see if she slit her wrists.”
My head falls back. Screw me for asking. Cyrus focuses on the television, and keeps his gun in his lap. Suddenly the knife hanging on my hip develops an inferiority complex.
“Remember that she’s scared,” he says.
I flip Cyrus off as I head to check on Emily. Cyrus flips it back. The moment I have a cut on my back, I’m going to have to watch myself with the board members, especially being a prospect. But for now, Cyrus isn’t the president of the club to me—he’s the man who took care of me for the first few years of my life.
My mother’s voice is muffled on the other side of Olivia’s door. Not a good sign. Olivia has to be weaker than I thought to let my mother help her into bed. My neck tightens. Emily’s going to kill Olivia if she stays much longer.
I tap on the bathroom door and when there’s no response, I knock again. Still nothing. Damn, she probably has slit her wrists.
The voices from the other side of Olivia’s door go quiet. The last thing I want is Olivia barging out of her bedroom and taking over again. She needs sleep, not to be babysitting Emily. I brought this trouble into her home and I can handle it for a few more hours.
I try the knob and it doesn’t budge. Grabbing the skeleton key we store on top of the door frame in case Olivia passes out in the bathroom, I wiggle it around in the small hole until I hear the click of the lock giving. I’m slow opening the door, in case Emily is lost in her thoughts on the toilet.
Each push of the door is methodic and gradual. Empty floor. Closed toilet. Curtains blowing in the breeze and a wide-open window. My fingers curl until they form a fist. I’m going to wring Emily’s tiny, delicate, hot little neck.
Emily
WITH MY KNEES pulled to my chest, I sit on a wooden bench that rests below a darkened window of the house. According to Olivia, the room belonged to me, which doesn’t make sense on multiple levels. The impulse is to peer into the room to see if the answers I’m searching for are in there, but I don’t. I keep my back to the house and my eyes locked on the approaching sunrise.
I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours and my brain has disconnected from my emotions. I feel stretched and numb. Cold and hot. Wired and exhausted. I sort of welcome it. I’m officially too tired for fear.
Oz was right earlier. I definitely was sucked into a storm and I’m desperately trying to grab on to anything solid to prevent myself from plummeting into the vortex of the tornado.
There’s a moan in the wooden window frame a few feet down and out pops a jean-clad leg. It’s the same black boot that monopolized my space at the funeral home. Oz slides out of the house with more elegance than me. I ended up on my butt. He lands on both feet. Even with all that muscle, he’s graceful like a cat. Goody for him.
His eyes dart around and he does a double take when he spots me on the bench. He scans the yard and thick surrounding woods, then he strides over as if climbing out a bathroom window is normal. “And they say people from Kentucky are backward. We have a front door and one in the kitchen, or do you think you’re too good for either one?”
“Would they have let me out?”
“Onto the porch.”
