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Then I sit down to read what really happened that day, over four years ago, when Rafe’s life changed forever.
***
Two hours later, I’m sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, my mind reeling, my eyes hot. Holy crap. I wipe at them, wondering if the image of a young Rafe, spattered with blood, his eyes wide and haunted, will ever leave my memory.
The articles don’t contain much detail about the crime itself. Horrific murder. Knife wounds. Fatal shotgun wounds.
But it’s enough. Rafe had watched it all. Struck with a long knife through the shoulder, pinned to the door, his back torn from trying to pull away to reach his sister who bled to death just a few feet away. He’d still been conscious when the police arrived, notified by a neighbor who said he heard gunshots from the house.
But he wouldn’t talk. It seems he didn’t speak for months.
God, Rafe. My heart is breaking for him. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, despite my best efforts to keep them in.
Maybe it’s stupid to cry about this now. It’s been years, and he survived. He kept going, in spite of it all. He tried to be strong, and hid his pain.
Coming to think of it, I’m not sure I broke him, after all. What I broke was his walls. Deep inside, he was already shattered.
The urge to run out and go look for him has me on my feet and at the door before I even realize what I’m doing.
Damn, Meg, no. He’s okay. He’s with his friends, going about important business. He doesn’t need more stress right now—and what will you say? That you Googled his family’s murder?
He’s opening up, little by little. Don’t push it. Let him come to it in his own time.
Getting dressed and going to work feels weird. Too normal after all that has happened. My mind is firing in a thousand different directions, swinging between memories of Rafe making love to me, kissing me, holding me, asking me to be his—and the images from the murder.
Plus, I’m worried. Who knows if his uncle gets violent, or if he has violent friends with him? Or if one of the guys loses his cool and it all goes to hell? Too many awful scenarios flashing through my head.
Please, don’t let Rafe get hurt worse than he already is. Let him get the shop back, and come back to me.
Guess I always fear the worst.
Which has to be why, when Rafe calls me much later, my hand shakes as I connect the call.
“Meg,” he says, his voice warm over the line. “Meg, we did it. We got the paper and destroyed it, and the tattoo shop is still mine.”
“That’s amazing,” I whisper, smiling. “Really amazing. So happy for you.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “Is everything okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Awesome. Is it okay if I pick you up after you finish work?”
If it’s okay? This time my smile is wider. “Yes, I’d like that.”
I’m still smiling when I put away my cell—but I’m also still jittery.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved beyond belief. But something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones. I can hear it in Rafe’s warm voice, I can sense it in my clumsiness as I serve the tables at the café.
Something bad’s about to happen.
Oh no, you don’t, I tell myself, glaring at the table I’m cleaning. Don’t go imagining things. You’re not a seer or an oracle. Fine, so you can sense when Rafe’s watching you—that happens to lots of people. You can’t predict the future.
Even if experience has taught me to trust such instincts. This is how I felt the night Mom’s asshole of a boyfriend went batshit. The night my life changed and I decided to leave Philly and everything I’ve known all my life.
Not this time. It won’t happen again. I’m just depressed after reading about the murder. God, that was so awful.
But everything’s fine now. Rafe will be okay, and so will I. So will everyone. Better believe it, Meg, my girl. We all deserve to be happy, even you.
