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As my tired eyes yearn for sleep, I walk slowly down the hall back to the kitchen. The chill of the memories follows me. It took all this time to find her killer, a fifty-year-old man who’d once been a high school teacher. They found him dead in his house three cities over. They only know it was him because he was being prosecuted for the rape of some other young woman and the DNA matched. He killed himself rather than being taken in last Saturday.
That wasn’t even a week ago, and then Amber Talbott died a few days later. She saw and heard everything, yet she did nothing but record part of the attack and send it to her friend. It wasn’t enough to solve my mother’s murder.
Shot from behind, it only captured the back of the man who’d done it as he viciously punched my mother, shoving her deeper into the alley. Amber had claimed she sent it to her friend because she was scared, but the texts between them implied otherwise. I know the video; I can see it clearly now. It’s only half a minute long and was taken from Amber’s window across the street.
My mother saw her in those final moments, or at the very least she saw the phone. Up until the moment I saw the video, I thought the worst thing you could see before being murdered would have to be your killer’s eyes. But that’s wrong. It has to be. Because how horrible would it be if the last thing you ever saw was someone hearing your cries, knowing you were in pain, but choosing to do nothing? Or simply walking away, shutting their window, or worse, filming it for their own amusement.
Amber said she thought the guy had just mugged my mother and then moved along. She told me to my face that she was sorry, and she wished she could have done something else. I didn’t believe her.
She could have done something if she’d really wanted to. She was older than me. She was closer, too. She could have sent that video to the cops. Five years later, just days ago, someone mugged her and left her for dead in an alley next to the hair salon where she worked.
No one did anything to help her, either.
And now Barry’s dead. Two people who I hated so much for so long, both killed within days of each other and after my mother’s killer was found dead.
Barry was an old man who couldn’t be bothered unless you wanted to talk about the winning lottery numbers or placing bets. Horses and the tracks were his favorite. I used to like him because he’d show me pictures of the races. But when I heard how cavalier he was when it came to my mother’s murder, I couldn’t stand the sound of his name, let alone the sight of his face.
I’m glad he’s dead. And if I’m being honest, I’m glad Amber’s dead too, but it doesn’t change the root of my pain.
Nothing can change the past. Nothing can take away the guilt.
I feel empty and hollowed out as I walk back to the kitchen table. The chills refuse to leave me.
Just as the nightmares don’t. But I had those even before my mother died. They were my constant companion, just like the bruises back then.
The night terrors got worse after she was gone, but the bruises eventually faded.
Staring at the cup of tea, I reflect on Sebastian. I remember how being around him, beingkissedby him, took so much of the pain away. Even just thinking about him helped.
But I’ll never be okay. It’s only a pipe dream. Sebastian may pull me away, pull me closer to him and into his world, but it’s only temporary. He’s proven that too many times for me to put much faith in him at all.
I grab the cup and dump it in the sink, watching as the dark liquid swirls down the drain.
I don’t want to sleep. My mother waits for me there.
SEBASTIAN
Ican still feel her fingers against mine. Her touch hasn’t left me since last night. My mind wanders to what she would have said if I’d told her I wanted to stay.
The rumble from the engine turns to white noise as I think about all the ways I could take the pain away from her. I imagine lying in bed beside her and taking her how I’ve dreamed of for as long as I can remember. My grip tightens on the steering wheel and the breeze from the rolled-down window pauses as I slow to a stop at a red light.
The radio station being changed to something else grabs my attention and I have to clear my throat and adjust in my seat to play off what was going through my mind. Carter changes the station again, but he’s not going to find what he needs by picking a different song. There’s nothing in this world that’s going to help take his mind off of the pain.
“You staying with me tonight?” I ask him. His dad kicked him out of the house again. Not that the kid did a damn thing wrong. He’s sixteen and involved with the wrong crowd, namely me, but he never does anything wrong. Not since his mom got sick last year.
He flicks the radio off, choosing silence over the commercial on the last station.
“I don’t know,” he tells me solemnly and then falls back against the passenger seat, staring listlessly out the window. Chewing on his thumbnail, he avoids looking back at me.
Which is fine, because the fucker behind us yells at me to get going while honking his horn. The red light’s turned green. One look in the rearview, catching the driver’s gaze silences him. He sees who I am, and suddenly the pissed off expression on his face vanishes. I wait for a beat, then another as the assholes settles into his seat and averts his eyes, waiting for me to do whatever the fuck I want to do.
I’m careful as I step on the gas, and more careful with what I say next. “How’s your mom doing?”
Even that simple question gets him worked up. Carter shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. He tries but he’s too choked up.
Carter’s mom keeps asking for him to help instead of his dad. It ranges from changing her position in bed and helping her go to the bathroom, to just being by her side to talk. His father doesn’t like that though. He’s a drunk and a deadbeat.
With five boys and her health deteriorating, I can only guess his mother is hoping that Carter will take care of the others when she’s gone. He’s the oldest. Hell knows his father won’t.
