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Good. Get angry.
“Will you be here when she leaves work? Will you follow her home? Make sure she gets there safely? Check every room of her house before she goes in?” I invade the last of his personal space. “Who will watch her home while she sleeps?”
His lip curls as his nose hits mine. “No one hurts Kirsten. Not. On. My. Watch,” he vows, voice low and lethal. “Now back the fuck up, pretty boy.” He looks over my shoulder. “Go play with your Legos at the kiddie table.”
I open my mouth, a curse on the tip of my tongue, when Kirsten enters my periphery.
“Ben, go back to your table,” she says softly. “Please.”
“Yeah,Ben. Go back to your table,” Officer Asshat repeats.
“Travis, stop.”
Much as I want to be the bigger man and walk away without another word, I refuse to let this go. I refuse to be silent when she has every right to know—about the woman in the woods and how the town is gossiping about her.
Rising from the seat, I throw a sneer his way. Then I soften my expression and turn my gaze to her. “Don’t worry, sparkles.” I wink. “One of us will keep you safe.” I level him with a hard stare. “And it won’t behim.”
And as I step away from the counter, she hisses at him. “What the hell is he talking about, Travis?”
THIRTEEN
KIRSTEN
Travis’s confessionfrom two days ago resurfaces as the restaurant empties.
“Somehow, a townie saw a picture of the woman in the woods.” His chin trembles slightly, a light sheen of sweat coats his forehead. “And they’re telling others how much she looks like you.”
The admission stole the air from my lungs. Had me running for the restroom, cracking my knees on the tile, and hurling into the toilet. Made me question every person in the restaurant, on the street, in our town.
She looks like you.
Paranoia has me scrutinizing everyone within eyeshot. Analyzing every verbal exchange for hidden meaning. Dissecting every expression, every shift in body language, as I scribble down orders or walk from point A to point B.
Nerves shot, my mind refuses to focus on anything other than his revelation. And every time I close my eyes, all I see is the terror in his honey irises.
She looks like you.
Exhausted beyond measure, sleep evades me the moment my head hits the pillow. My thoughts refuse to stop, my brain refuses to shut down and unwind. And when my body finally crashes, the little sleep I do get is restless. Horrid dreams of some faceless person dragging me into the woods and doing heinous things as I scream for help that never comes.
Worst of all, old, overcome habits have emerged in response to my anxiety.
For years after my father passed away, I felt like I had no say in my life. No control over what happened next. I lived in a swirl of fear and anger every day. Though the person responsible for Dad’s death was no longer a threat, panic and rage existed in my marrow. Guilt gnawed at my soul. Life spun in dizzying circles.
I hid while my dad died. I hid and did nothing to help save his life.
Dad’s ashes sat in a box on Mom’s nightstand, a constant reminder of what was missing in our lives. A constant reminder of what was stolen from me in seconds. A constant reminder that you don’t always have a say in what happens to you.
The lack of power lit a fire in my soul. Had me thirsty to take my life back, even if only my adolescence. Had my young mind pondering things no preteen or teenager should consider.
In an effort to assert control, I hurt myself. For years, only I knew of my unhealthy habit. Only I had a say. And I fed off that power while my body withered to skin and bones.
Mom joked about me becoming Stone Bay’s running legend. My sneakers ate up miles daily while I starved my body of nutrition. Mom had no idea what laid beneath the baggy graphic tees and tightly tied drawstring shorts I wore at the dining table. She had no idea I ate measly portions of breakfast and dinner, only to throw them up minutes later.
I was emaciated by the time she put the pieces together. Become a living, breathing skeleton.
Naturally, she blamed herself. So preoccupied with the loss of her husband—her best friend—she turned a blind eye to the world around her. I tried to take the blame, tried to remove the burden from her shoulders, but she wouldn’t allow it. She cried until her eyes turned red and puffy. Held me in her arms until our limbs went numb. Promised me she’d be a better parent. Vowed to be more present and help me heal. In return, I pledged to help her heal too.
Months of therapy later, I learned new ways to harness power over my life. Healthier habits and coping mechanisms.
